First Impressions
by Ruchira
Summary: AU, companion to "Quantum Fluctuations". A long shuttle ride early in Voyager's journey results in Lt. Tom Paris telling Captain Janeway the story of how he met Lt. B'Elanna Torres. P/T.
1. Chapter 1

**First Impressions**

_Disclaimers: I don't own Star Trek or anything remotely related to it. I'm not trying to infringe on anything. I'm just having fun._

_Summary: Companion piece to the last reality visited in "Quantum Fluctuations" (if you haven't read that one yet, I would recommend reading it first). A long shuttle ride early in their trip back home gives Captain Kathryn Janeway an opportunity to get to know her new chief helmsman, and he fills the time by telling her about his history with his wife--Lt. B'Elanna Torres, who is still back home in the Alpha quadrant._

_A/N: I almost didn't post this story just because it's almost like a repeat of "If I Knew You Then." The basic premise is the same: Paris and Torres met while still at the Academy. However, everything after that set-up is completely different (aside from the things that were established in canon; ie, Torres' participation on the track team). There will be some other similarities, which I tried to avoid but found were necessary for the story, and so I hope you forgive me for recycling plot lines._

_To avoid any further confusion, let me make a few more points: 1) Since Torres wasn't with Chakotay's cell, there's no reason why his ship would have been pulled into the DQ (the Caretaker was interested in her, not anybody else on the ship). The Maquis were captured by _Voyager_ in the Badlands before the Caretaker took them away. 2) Paris wasn't at his station when the displacement wave hit, which is why he wasn't killed like Lt. Stadi was._

_I hope that helps clear things up. Enjoy the story._

* * *

**Chapter 1—2372**

"Course laid in, Captain. We should be arriving in another fifty hours," Lt. Tom Paris said, punctuating his words with a few jabs at the helm controls in front of him before rising from the pilot's chair of the small shuttle.

"Very good, Lieutenant," Captain Kathryn Janeway replied. She paused slightly. "That was some rather impressive flying, Tom."

He grinned at the compliment before turning and heading toward the rear of the shuttle, probably to use the head, which after ten hours of nonstop maneuvers through the largest asteroid field she had ever seen, was probably necessary. Not for the first time, she was glad she had a pilot of Paris' caliber on _Voyager_. Another pilot probably could have managed to get the shuttle through the asteroids, but it would have undoubtedly taken longer and probably resulted in some external damage to the hull.

She sighed deeply and leaned back in the copilot's seat, glad that that harrowing obstacle was now behind them. She had had nothing to do with getting through the asteroid field, but the constant adrenaline rush of seeing the large rocks appear to head directly for their viewscreen pretty much made any effort to get some work done while Paris was doing his thing impossible. Now that they had nothing but empty space ahead of them for the next several hours, she could get back to the report Neelix had provided her on the people she was to be meeting with. Who were they again? She searched her mind idly for a minute, then gave up. With all of the new species _Voyager_ had encountered over the last seven months, they were starting to merge together, and she found she didn't have the mental energy to try to sort them out at the moment.

With another sigh, she glanced over at the empty seat next to her. The massive obstacle course that had lain between _Voyager_ and her destination necessitated bringing the senior pilot along, but she probably would have chosen him for this mission anyway. Even though they had been on the same ship for seven months, she felt like she hardly knew the pilot any better now than she did the day she asked him to take _Voyager_ for a spin through the Badlands; she almost hadn't gotten the chance to get to know him at all. They had just finished securing Chakotay's Maquis crew in the cargo bay after finding the dilapidated ship on a small planetoid in the Badlands, and he had been crossing the bridge to return to the helm when they were hit with the Caretaker's displacement wave. The dying entity had later told her that he had healed Lt. Paris' concussion and underlying traumatic brain injury as a sign of his good faith before returning the pilot to the ship. She had passed that information along shortly after they began their journey back toward home, and he had listened impassively. He had murmured something sarcastic about not having the opportunity to thank him before he left her ready room. And now, seven months later, she still knew little more than the fact that she had enjoyed working with Admiral Paris both at the Academy and at her first posting on the _Al-Batani_, and if Lt. Paris was anything like his father, she was sure she would enjoy working with him, too.

She frowned slightly as she spied what appeared to be a piece of paper stuck to the top of the helm controls. She couldn't remember the last time she had even _seen_ a piece of paper; she couldn't think of a single reason why her helmsman would have one with him. On impulse, she leaned over and reached for it, tugging it gently to free it from where Paris had secured it.

Her eyebrows raised at what appeared to be a photograph, although it was more likely a print of a holoimage. The woman in the picture appeared to be unaware that her image was taken, her attention focused on an open access panel of a planetary shuttle, tools in her hands and a triumphant smile on her face. She wasn't beautiful in the classic sense, but was undeniably exotic, with sculpted features, full lips, dark eyes, and delicate ridges on her forehead, most likely coming from having one Klingon parent. Her hair was thick and curly, most gathered in a quick knot at the nape of her neck, except for a few locks that had freed themselves and fell along her face. Her body, probably slender and fit, was concealed beneath a Starfleet cadet's uniform, the four rectangular pips on her collar identifying her as a Cadet First Class, a senior at the Academy.

The sound of a throat clearing brought Janeway's attention back to the present, and she guiltily turned toward the rear compartment, feeling like a kid caught peeking at her Christmas presents. Tom Paris didn't look annoyed, however, just amused, probably at catching his captain snooping around. "Friend of yours from the Academy?" Janeway asked lightly, holding up the piece of paper.

"I guess you can say that," Paris replied, still amused as he took the few steps back to his seat. He held out his hand for the photograph, which he returned to its previous location after she handed it over. He held up his left hand briefly. "My wife, actually."

Janeway felt her eyes widen in surprise, her face reddening as she realized that not only did she not know that the former test pilot was married, but that she hadn't made the connection between the gold band on his ring finger and marital status; after all, her parents, the traditionalists that they were, worse similar bands. "I didn't know you were married," she finally said, a twinge of guilt in her voice. "You never said anything."

He shrugged a single shoulder, not looking in her direction. He knew what she was talking about—the first senior staff meeting after _Voyager_ had been stranded in the Delta quadrant, the officers still in shock, many discussing what was left behind. Ensign Harry Kim had moaned about missing his parents, the new chief engineer, Lt. Joe Carey, had mentioned his wife and two boys, even Janeway had commented on her own losses, her fiancée and the dog that had been like a child to them. "There didn't seem to be a point," he finally said. He turned to look at her. "Nobody was happy to be stranded here, and everybody had left something behind. Hearing one more sob story wasn't going to make anyone feel better or get us home any faster. I knew you had already sworn more than a hundred percent to the crew, so it wasn't going to make you any more dedicated."

He did have a point. She felt guilty enough about her decision to destroy the array, thus condemning the crew to what could potentially be a futile journey across the galaxy in a quest to get home, and hearing one more story wouldn't make her feel any better. "For what it's worth, though, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," he said politely.

They continued to ride in silence for several moments. Janeway considered pulling out that report, but she felt like there was still more to be said. She got the impression that, although Paris was a fairly private person—and very much like his father in that respect—he really did want to talk about this, and suddenly, she found that she wanted to as well. "Do you ever worry?" she asked. "I mean, worry about what they must think, us disappearing like that…" Her words trailed off, very much unlike her. She usually said what she meant, not mincing words, but suddenly found this too painful of a topic to vocalize. In her mind's eye, she could see Mark, back in San Francisco, mourning the loss of his fiancée and her crew. In had been seven months; would they have been declared dead? What would have happened to Molly and the puppies? Was Mark starting to move on?

Paris knew what she was thinking, and closed his eyes briefly at a sudden flash of memory. _"I'm only getting married once, Flyboy. Don't you dare die on me..."_ "No," he said firmly, his eyes opening. He looked over at her. "No," he said again, softer this time. "I don't worry about getting home in another ten or twenty years, or even another seventy, and seeing that B'Elanna has moved on and married someone else. She won't."

His words were insistent, and Janeway mistakenly got the impression that he was trying to convince himself of that fact. "How can you be sure? They're going to think that we died. They would have looked at first, they might still be looking, but two years after we disappeared, they're going to stop and declare us dead. That's standard protocol for such things."

_"I'm only getting married once, Flyboy. Don't you dare die on me."_

_"Don't worry, I'm not planning on it."_

He nodded slowly. "You're right. In less than a year and a half, they're going to declare us dead, and a lot of people will begin to move on, to live their lives again, and some spouses and significant others will find other people and make new lives with them, but I don't worry about that with B'Elanna. I think I would actually feel better if I knew that was a possibility, because I can't stand the thought of her living the rest of her life alone and grieving over me. She's far too young for that—she turned twenty-three about three months ago—and far too full of life. Eventually, she'll grow to resent me, to hate me for marrying her. I worry about _that_ every day."

His vehemence was enough to stun her into silence, and the minutes stretched on, seeming as hours. Finally, she spoke again. "How do you know?"

He looked surprised at the question, as if it never occurred to him to question that. "Because she's half-Klingon," he said matter-of-factly, "and Klingons mate for life. It was actually something that we discussed in great length before we married, because she wanted to make sure I knew exactly what I was getting into."

"I've heard of Klingons marrying again after a spouse has died. In fact, Klingons have divorce, too, don't they?"

He nodded, slowly. "Yeah, that's true, but as ironic as it sounds, with B'Elanna being half-human, she has to be more Klingon than some full Klingons in some respects." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain. "Klingons bond when they mate—it's a chemical thing, hormones and pheromones and everything. I know the details, but it's pretty dry and boring, so I won't subject you to that. The biochemical processes in a full Klingon make it possible to form that bond twice, or even three times in some cases, but for whatever reason, B'Elanna's missing a key enzyme, and she can only bond once. She _could_ legally marry again, but she can't form that kind of bond again, which plays a role in attraction and emotions and those kinds of things that are necessary in a _real_ relationship. In other words," he broke into a wide, roguish grin, "she'll never find another man as attractive as me." He sobered slightly, and added, "I don't worry about her marrying again because I know she won't—she has too much honor to get involved with someone when she can't give him a hundred percent of herself." _And then there's the baby_… He stayed silent on that particular topic. The captain felt guilty enough about splitting families apart.

The two officers again lapsed into silence as Captain Janeway thought about what the young pilot had revealed, and began to understand his position. He loved his wife enough to want her to be happy, even if it was with another man. If it took them the full seventy years to get home, she'll be in her nineties when they return, possibly still active and healthy, as the average Klingon lifespan was over 150 Standard years, but much too old to have children, to have a real marriage. At twenty-three, her life should just be beginning, with romantic adventures and dreams of kids playing in the backyard. She felt that familiar pang of guilt that always came when she thought about the sacrifices she had forced her crew into making, without even asking them. "Tell me about her," Janeway said softly.

"Captain?" Paris asked, surprised.

She smiled thinly. "Your wife. Tell me about her. How did you meet?"

Slowly, a smile emerged on his face, and he leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable for what was going to be a long story. "Well, we were at the Academy. She was a plebe, and I was her company commander."

She knew the surprise she felt must have been evident on her face. She had been a company commander when she was cadet first class, and could still remember the endless lectures about not getting involved with the plebes in her command, not as if she had any reason to be tempted to do so. She knew that Lt. Tom Paris had a somewhat indifferent attitude toward rules and regulations he didn't see the purpose for, but as an admiral's son and former Academy plebe himself, he had to have known how important that rule was—if caught, the plebe would be removed from the Academy, and the company commander would have the incident permanently on their record—and most commanding officers took that sort of infraction very seriously. "You must have liked living dangerously even then," Janeway said, managing to keep her voice from sounding too stern.

"What?" he asked, confused. After a minute, he understood what she was saying, and began to laugh. "No, no, it wasn't like that." He took a moment to collect himself, still chuckling slightly. "No, we weren't actually dating until she was almost a senior, when I was a lieutenant jg and most definitely _not_ in her chain of command. In fact, when I was her superior officer, she was not only not interested, she downright _despised_ me. When people talk about how important first impressions are, they aren't joking. After all, her first impression of me lasted more than a year…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2—2366**

* * *

Cadet First Class Thomas Eugene Paris, commanding "officer" of Starfleet Academy Class of 2370, 2nd Fleet, Delta Company, glanced down at his PADD as it chirped, signaling that another one of his plebes had checked in, a Maxwell Burke. He rolled his eyes as he confirmed the message with a quick thumbprint. "What I wouldn't do to be on Titan right now," he muttered to himself.

"What was that, Paris?" Cadet First Class Sarah Markeson, another company commander, asked absently as she confirmed another one of her arrivals.

He sighed. "I was offered a chance to spend the summer at the Academy Flight Range, working on advanced evasive tactics as part of my honors thesis, but good old Dad convinced Admiral Janics to let me teach a beginning course on sublight navigation in the fall instead, so I can stay at the Academy and babysit a bunch of plebes for the summer."

Markeson chuckled as she began to quote Admiral Sorenson, who oversaw the plebe year curriculum and was the direct superior officer over the company commanders: "'It is an honor to be selected as a company commander for the incoming cadets. You should take your responsibilities very seriously, as you are vital toward the education of these young men and women.'"

"Right," Paris replied drolly. He rolled his eyes again. "This is just another one of Dad's attempts to get me groomed for command."

"You _are_ in the flight program," Markeson pointed out. She was an exobotany major. "Conn is seen as a direct precedent to command."

"I'm not in the flight program to be on the command track," Paris replied indignantly. "I've been a pilot since I was a kid."

"We know," Markeson said with her own eye roll. "Your flight records are posted all over the Academy. Hey, I hear your cousin is going to be the navigator of Nova Squadron this year."

"Nick?" Paris asked with a frown, shaking his head. "No, he took some of his flight courses out of order, so he hasn't taken advanced navigational techniques yet. Seth's going to be navigator." He sighed. "He's probably out there right now, at the Flight Range, putting his techniques to good use. Lucky bastard." He sighed again as his PADD chirped, announcing another prospective cadet. "Oh, goody. Another 'outstanding young adult' has arrived, just waiting for me to 'mold into a fine Starfleet officer.'"

Markeson laughed. "May the gods have mercy on us all," she joked.

---

Cadets Paris and Markeson leaned against the Academy gates, barely halfway listening to Admiral Brandt's "welcome to the Starfleet Academy Preparatory Program" speech. "Aww, they're starting to look scared. It's cute," Markeson commented with a slight smirk.

Paris chuckled. "Sarah, you're evil."

She grinned and shrugged a shoulder, clearly not bothered by his comment. "Can you believe we're doing this? It seems like just yesterday _we_ were the ones standing there at attention in our brand-new uniforms, hoping we'll pass the six-week prep program."

Now it was his turn to smirk. "Hoping we'll pass? I was hoping I _wouldn't_ pass, just to see how The Admiral would respond."

Markeson laughed. "You would have been disowned for sure." They both laughed quietly for a minute, until they heard the low sound of someone quietly clearing her throat. Standing on the other side of Markeson was Cadet First Class Serata, looking as disapproving as a Vulcan could. The two human cadets stifled their laughter, even as Paris leaned down to whisper in Markeson's ear: "Imagine having Serata as your company commander."

Her shoulders shook in silent laughter. "Imagine having _you_," she shot back.

He grinned. "You think you're so much better?"

She raised an eyebrow to his challenge. "You want to make this interesting?" Before waiting for a response, she continued, "I bet you'll have a plebe drop or fail before I do."

"What're the stakes?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I happen to know you have a stash of some of the Federation's finest liquors in your room."

He put on a look of mock horror. "Alcohol is against Academy regulations," he said with false innocence.

"Right," she snorted. "And I grew up on a vineyard, so I have some fine wines. Loser owes winner a bottle of his or her choice."

He thought about it for a second. "You're on."

---

Cadet Paris was silent as he watched the plebes under his command, standing at attention with their eyes forward, not looking at the senior cadets who walked among their ranks, inspecting uniforms and giving instructions in a brusque, superior manner. That was a job Paris had never had, always spending his summers at flight training. _Until now_, he thought, a realization that still brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He hated it when his father make decisions for him, and couldn't help the nagging feeling that that wasn't going to change, for his entire career.

He glanced at the lines of cadets and frowned slightly, noticing that they weren't even. Pulling out the PADD that had been a constant companion since that morning, he noticed that there was still one prospective cadet not accounted for. He just hoped Markeson wouldn't hold that against him.

He straightened when he saw one of his junior officers, Cadet Second Class Michael Glass, cross formation, intercepting a teenaged girl heading toward them from the gate, dressed in a black jumpsuit, her dark hair in a tight braid, a duffle slung over one shoulder. After talking to her for a moment, Glass pointed her toward Paris.

"Plebe Torres," he drawled as she approached. "Your orders were to report at the Academy gates by 0900. You're more than three hours late."

She stared back at him for a minute, not responding, not reacting, but not backing down, letting him know that she wasn't going to be intimidated by anyone, superior officer or not. Judging by the Klingon ridges on her forehead, there probably wasn't much that _would_ intimidate her. She looked even younger in person than in her Academy photo—and much more attractive, a thought he tried to quickly put out of his mind. "It was excused, _sir_," she finally said, sounding frustrated. "The transport from Kessik IV couldn't get here any faster."

He stared back at her, letting her know that he wasn't going to be intimidated by her, either. "You should have taken an earlier transport."

She snorted derisively. "There are two transports to Earth a month. I was on the first one to leave after graduation from secondary school. If you have any problems with that, _sir_, I'm sure Admiral Sorenson could explain the situation to you."

He didn't doubt her words, but he wasn't going to back down, either. He jerked a thumb toward the field house. "You can change into your uniform there, Plebe, and then report right back to formation. Cadet Glass will bring you up to speed once the other plebes have been released to the barracks, and we'll discuss appropriate punishments then."

She glared, angrily shifting the weight of her duffle. "I knew this was a mistake," she muttered darkly as she turned in the opposite direction that he pointed, back toward the gates.

Thinking only of his bet with Cadet Markeson, he reacted on impulse, grabbing the young plebe by the elbow. "Hey," he said. "Where do you think you're going?"

Her glare grew more deadly as her eyes went from his hand on her elbow back to his face. "Let go of my arm," she said, her tone low. Instinctively, he did as she said, and she turned back toward the gates.

"Torres," he said before she could even take a step. "You've made it this far. Might as well give it a few days before deciding it's not worth your time."

She turned back to him, her posture stiff. He could see the debate in her eyes—back down and change into uniform, or turn her back on the hard work it took her to get that far. Refusing to meet his eye, she stalked away, heading brusquely toward the field house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3—2366**

* * *

"What fun activities do the plebes get to do today?" Cadet Paris asked his small group of "officers" after they had released their prospective cadets back to the barracks after a morning run.

"They have training for stress reaction all week. They'll have that test on Friday," Cadet Third Class Penab replied, wiping sweat away from her smooth blue brow.

Paris rolled his eyes. "I know _that_, Penab. What _specifically_ are they doing today?"

"Oh," the Bolian cadet replied. "I don't know, sir." Paris looked expectantly at the other two cadets, both of whom shrugged indifferently. He sighed.

"Okay, I'll check out the schedule when we're done here. Glass, what can you tell me about their progress?"

"Um," the cadet second class stalled, pulling a PADD from the pocket of his tight physical fitness uniform. "As you know, all plebes passed the exams for spatial orientation on Friday, although Plebe Waters came pretty close to failing. On the teamwork exercises, most have been doing pretty well, although Plebes Torres, Jackson, Ymana, and Qui are still struggling in that area."

He sighed. "And let me guess—our four highest scoring plebes on the first round of exams were Torres, Jackson, Ymana, and Qui."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course." He sighed again. "The smart ones never like to work with others. What about demerits?"

Now it was Cadet Third Class Roger Elsheik's turn to look uncomfortable. "Plebes Burke, Hewlett, Qui, Amah, and Sekai have one each, Laner and Allyn have two, and," here he grimaced again, "Plebe Torres has five."

Paris groaned as he thought of the half-Klingon cadet. "She shows up late on the first day, refuses to cooperate in teamwork exercises, and has what has got to be a record number of demerits for having completed two weeks of the prep program. Do we have any _good_ news about Torres?"

All three junior cadets pulled out their PADDs and began scrolling frantically through them, trying to find something positive. "She was above the ninety-ninth percentile in the first round of exams to get here," Glass said.

"Salutatorian of her secondary school," Penab added.

"Apparently, she's some sort of engineering whiz kid," Elsheik reported, scanning the words on his PADD quickly. "I've seen chief engineers of starships with shorter lists of awards."

Paris snorted. "None of that does anybody any good if she doesn't pass the prep program. Okay, any suggestions on how to brainwash her into believing that Starfleet Academy is the best place in the universe and she should want to stay?" The other three cadets looked at him blankly. He sighed. "Of course not," he muttered. "That's my job, right?"

"Well, sir, you _are_ the company commander, and—" Penab began.

"Penab," Paris interrupted, holding up his hand to stop her. "That was a rhetorical question."

The Bolian blushed a dark blue; rhetorical questions were an unknown concept to Bolians, who were very ebullient by their very nature. "Sorry, sir."

Paris gave her a quick grin. "It's okay. Well, I guess that's it for now. Go get cleaned up, we have formation at 0830 in front of Archer Hall. Dismissed." The three junior cadets snapped to attention quickly before moving back toward the barracks to shower and grab a quick breakfast. Paris sighed again, all but collapsing against the wall to the field house. If he didn't find some rabbit to pull out of his hat—and soon—he would lose that bet to Cadet Markeson, and Starfleet would be out one very talented and very expressive half-Klingon engineer.

---

Cadet Tom Paris watched the growing altercation out of the corner of his eye, ready to intervene if it looked like things were going to get out of hand. The scene was like something out of an old Western movie—with just a little bit more dust in the air, maybe a random tumbleweed or two, and cowboy hats and chaps instead of Starfleet Academy uniforms, that's exactly what it would be. Well, except for the fact that one participant looked ready to tear the head off of the other, who was standing there as calmly as if nothing was happening.

"Sir," Cadet Michael Glass whispered to him. "Aren't you going to do anything?"

"A half-Klingon and a Vulcan?" Paris whispered back. "Would you want to get in the middle of that fight?"

"I don't think Virot would do much fighting," Glass commented. "He'd probably just level her with one of those freakish nerve pinches."

"Then what's the problem?" Paris asked. Glass opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it when he realized he didn't have a good answer. Paris smirked slightly at having won the argument, then turned his attention back to the plebes in front of him.

He frowned slightly as he tried to remember what started the fight—or, more accurately, what set Torres off this time. Suddenly, he remembered—Torres had come up with a suggestion for how to solve the group problem, and Virot had launched into a lengthy monologue about the problems with her solution, without coming up with any alternatives of his own. If he weren't the company commander, Paris would have seriously considered decking the Vulcan himself; after all, this was the first time Torres had shown any interest in working in a group with her fellow plebes, and Virot was practically going out of his way to prove that her preconceived notions of working with others were correct.

Finally deciding that the potential for punches being thrown was getting too high, he stepped in. "Congratulations," he said dryly to the ten plebes. "You have achieved none of your mission objectives. You're dead."

Plebe Virot opened his mouth to respond, but Torres was faster. "We would have _completed_ the mission if Virot didn't argue with everything I said!" she exclaimed heatedly.

Virot raised an eyebrow in response. "I did not argue, Ms. Torres. I was merely pointing out several flaws in your reasoning—"

"Flaws in my reasoning?" Torres asked in disbelief. She threw her hands in the air. "There were no 'flaws in my reasoning'! It would have worked if you would have let me—"

"Enough," Paris interjected. "When you're on a ship someday, are you going to tell your captain that your plan would have worked if you hadn't been arguing among the team members?" Torres opened her mouth to argue, but the warning look on Paris' face stopped her. Addressing the group, he said, "The purpose of this exercise was to see how you as a group can together come up with a solution to the problem at hand. Nothing in Starfleet is ever a one-person job. You're going to be working with other people every day of your entire careers, which means collaboration and yes, disagreements. Trying to avoid them is pointless—what you need to learn is how to work _through_ them." He glanced around at the group, making eye contact with each of the ten plebes. Most looked properly chastised, Virot merely raised an eyebrow, and Torres looked ready to rip his throat out. "I think that's enough for the day. It's now 2000 hours. We'll reconvene at 0430 for physical training. Everyone except Plebes Virot and Torres, you're dismissed." The other eight plebes snapped to attention before turning and walking out of the holosuite in a single-file row. Paris nodded to Glass that he could leave.

For a minute, the two plebes just looked at their company commander, who looked back. Finally, speaking to both of them, he said, "You're both obviously very smart students, but your interpersonal skills are among the worst I have ever seen. Plebe Torres, I am not finished speaking," he scolded harshly. She closed her mouth. He sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment. "To be perfectly honest, you two are the brightest in the company, but I don't know if either of you has what it takes to be a Starfleet officer. Virot, I have two words for you: constructive criticism. Look it up. I will talk to you about that tomorrow morning. You're dismissed." The tall Vulcan, already standing at attention, gave a brisk nod before turning to leave.

Paris sighed again as he turned to Torres. "Let me guess," she said dryly, "I need to learn how to play well with others."

He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "I don't give a damn about you playing with others, Torres. I'll consider myself a success if by the end of the prep program, you learn how to _speak_ to others."

She glared at him. "You know I was right," she accused.

He knew she was surprised when he agreed. "You _were_ right," he said. "Your solution would have worked, and it was probably the most innovative solution I've ever heard. Your engineering skills were never in question here."

"This was a pointless exercise," she said emphatically. "We both know I knew the right answer. What did I need a team for?"

He didn't reply for a moment, taking a seat on one of the inactive consoles displayed on the now-inactive training program. "Let's say I'm your superior officer," he said. His lips quirked slightly. "Shouldn't be too much of a stretch of the imagination. Now let's say that you presented that solution, and I told you that it wouldn't work. What would you do?"

"But it _would_ work," she argued.

He rolled his eyes. "You're missing the point, Torres. Imagine that you're the chief engineer of a ship, and I'm a captain who knows next to nothing about engineering. Now, you just presented this great plan to me, but I know just enough to know that there's a pretty good risk of a warp core breach, so I say no."

She rolled her eyes, clearly not pleased at having to act out a skit. "I would tell you that the chances of a breach are low with the safety protocols I'm implementing."

"Low, but not zero, right?"

"Well, there's always some risk," she hedged. She gave a frustrated sigh, then began speaking more emphatically. "Any solution we have to this problem is going to have some element of risk, but the risks of doing nothing are greater than if we do something."

They continued this dialogue for another half hour, with her explaining her ideas and him trying to shoot holes through them. He could tell that she was getting frustrated, but she avoided actually yelling at him or striking out, which was a good sign.

Catching her off-guard, he began to laugh. It wasn't anything that she had said, not directly, it was just his sudden realization that he was enjoying himself, that there was something about arguing with the young plebe that made him hope that she would never change, despite how difficult she was being. He didn't want to turn her into some compliant young officer—that drive was what made her great at what she did.

"Something funny, sir?" she asked, the frustration evident in her voice.

He shook his head with a grin. "Not really. I think we've done enough for the night."

She looked confused. "But I haven't convinced you yet—"

He shook his head again. "That wasn't the point, Torres. I knew your solution was right from the beginning. I'm trying to show you that you can disagree with a fellow officer, even a senior officer, without losing your temper."

She stared at him for a long minute before throwing her hands in the air in frustration. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered to herself.

He grinned at her frustration, remembering feeling the same way when he in her place, but for different reasons. He knew he couldn't just leave her when she was this keyed up, though. "You have a locker at the gym, right?"

She frowned at the question. "Of course," she replied indignantly.

He nodded. "Good. Let's go."

"But we have physical training at—"

"You saying you don't have the stamina?" he asked, purposely baiting her.

She flushed slightly. "Let's go," she said brusquely, brushing past him to exit the holosuite.

They started out at a light jog, not talking, just running next to each other. He had suggested the run in order to burn off some frustration, but that pace wasn't making him feel any better, and he could tell that it wasn't doing much for her, either. "Let's race," he suggested, slowing to a stop. He squinted slightly at the field house, about half a kilometer away. "Here to the entrance of the field house."

She smiled wickedly. "You're on," she said. He rolled his eyes slightly at her confidence; she may be half-Klingon, but his legs were much longer than hers.

"Okay," he said. "On three. One, two… three!" He jumped off to a sprint, slightly surprised when she appeared to wait a few seconds before taking off.

He could practically feel her a few meters behind him for the first half of the run, although he didn't hear her breathing especially hard—probably because he could barely hear anything over his own breaths. When the field house was about 150 meters away, though, she suddenly rushed past him as if he were standing still. "What the…" he barely managed to mutter. He tried to catch up, but it was a futile effort.

When he got to the field house, she was leaning casually against the wall, smirking slightly as she talked to an older man with the pips of a lieutenant commander on his collar, not even breathing hard. "Ah, I should have known," Commander Vladimir Ulshanov, the woman's track and field coach, said as Paris approached, "that it would be Cadet Tom Paris to challenge my newest decathlon recruit to a race."

Paris stared at Torres in disbelief, still trying to catch his breath. "Newest… decathlon… recruit," he repeated between breaths. She continued to smirk, breathing normally. "Figures," he managed.

She shrugged slightly. "You would have figured it out eventually."

Commander Ulshanov laughed. "B'Elanna here is going to help us win the Starfleet Invite this year."

Paris chuckled sarcastically, straightening and breathing more or less normally. "That's assuming she passes the prep program and all the exams." She stiffened, glaring at him for bringing up her problems in front of her coach. He knew it was unfair, but he was still a bit sore about losing the impromptu race so easily.

Ulshanov looked at her sternly. "We've discussed this once already, Torres."

To her credit, she actually looked ashamed. "Yes, sir," she said. "I'll work on it, sir."

"See that you do," he replied. He glanced quickly over at Paris, who shrugged slightly, before he turned back to Torres. "Dismissed." She straightened slightly and stalked off, sending a glare in Paris' direction first.

Ulshanov waited until Torres was out of earshot before he began laughing. "So, company commander, huh? I always figured your father would find a way to rope you into being trained for command."

"Yeah, no kidding," Paris muttered.

"Are all of your plebes giving you problems, or is it just Torres?"

He laughed, but entirely without mirth. "Oh, Torres is special, alright." He sighed. "I'm at a loss, Commander. I don't know what to do."

"Yeah, she has a temper, that's for sure," Ulshanov agreed.

"If it was just the temper, it would be one thing, but it's this whole superior attitude, like she's the best thing to ever happen to the Academy. She refuses to work with anybody, and when we make her, she comes dangerously close to lashing out. I've tried to tell her that she's not going to even _make_ it to the exams if this continues, but there's no getting through to her." He sighed again, then turned to Ulshanov and spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. "I'm open to suggestions."

Ulshanov shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Tom, but that's not my thing. I teach cadets how to run faster and throw further. You're going to have to figure this out on your own."

Paris chuckled and rolled his eyes. "You know, Commander, Sydney always said you were absolutely worthless."

"Glad to hear it," Ulshanov said dryly. "How is your sister doing, anyway? Is she still running marathons?"

"She does about one a year," Paris said. "She's a full lieutenant now, chief of security on the _Pathrind_."

"Good for her." He paused slightly. "Chief of security, huh? Sounds like a position where she has a lot of experience working with people with tempers." He winked meaningfully. "Have a good night, Cadet Paris."

"You too, sir," Paris said. He grinned, a new plan slowly beginning to take form.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4—2366**

* * *

"Listen up, plebes!" Cadet Michael Glass called out to Delta Company. He waited a few seconds for them to quiet down, then continued. "We have a special treat for you this morning." He gestured toward the tall hill behind him. "Sulu Hill. Cadet Paris is waiting for you at the top, and Cadet Penab will remain down here at the bottom. You are to make your way up—we don't care how—report to Cadet Paris, and then come back and report to Cadet Penab. The first three plebes to make it back to Cadet Penab will be rewarded—and with more than just bragging rights."

"All the way up?" one of the plebes asked in disbelief. "But, sir, the shortest trail is seven kilometers! And that's too steep for running."

"Well, then," Cadet Glass said with a smirk. "Maybe you should consider another route up. This is not a timed exercise—you can take all day if you want to, but remember, being one of the first three back will be worth your while." He paused dramatically, then called out with gusto, "Go!" In a flash, sixty plebes were off, all hoping to find the path that would allow them to be one of the lucky three rewarded.

Meanwhile, Cadet Tom Paris was at the top of Sulu Hill, a small peak of the Sierra Nevadas, often used for this exact purpose—Starfleet physical training. Mt. Serkat on Vulcan and Krengkit Peak on Ktaris were more well-known for such exercises, but they were there and this was here, so it was an easy decision to make. With a contented sigh, Paris took a seat on the grass at the top of hill, leaned back against a tree, took a sip of the coffee he had transported up with him, and pulled out a PADD, preparing for the course in sublight navigation that he would be teaching once the fall term officially began. It would still be a few hours before the first plebes arrived to check in with him, and he wanted to put that time to good use.

Just as he assumed, it was more than two hours later before Plebe Virot appeared on the summit. With little more than a raised eyebrow to his company commander, he pressed his thumb onto Paris' PADD before beginning his descent. Only about a minute later, Plebe Jackson—who was so tall and powerfully built that he was rumored to have Naussican blood in him—rounded the same corner as Virot and made his way toward Paris.

As soon as Jackson ducked out of view, Torres appeared, having taken a different path as Virot and Jackson. Noticing that no one else was around, she smiled triumphantly as she gave her thumbprint. "You're in third," Paris told her bluntly. She looked surprised, then angry. "Virot was here five minutes ago—" a lie, it couldn't have been more than three "—and it's going to be hard, if not impossible, for you to catch up to him."

"There is no way I'm letting that Vulcan _petaQ_ beat me," Torres replied vehemently as she spun away from him, the short tail of her French braid flying behind her.

Paris couldn't hide his grin at her increased pace in efforts of catching the other two plebes. He had intentionally baited her to get her to speed up, hoping that the anger would give her the boost she needed. He hoped his tactics worked; he had chosen this particular challenge with her in mind, knowing that she had the strength and stamina to be the first one down, if she put her mind to it. With how much she had been doubting her decision to go to the Academy, she needed something to boost her confidence, to remind her that she _was_ good enough.

More than four hours later, Paris trotted toward the picnic shelter Delta Company was gathered under. After the last plebe had checked in with him at the summit, he had jogged down with her, keeping a pace reasonable enough that they could chat easily on the way down. She had timidly asked him if all four years were this hard; he laughed and said once classes began, she would be so busy studying she wouldn't even notice the physical training sessions. She didn't look all that comforted by his words.

Torres was studying a PADD when Paris and Deavi entered the shelter. She smirked, and Paris had to turn away to conceal his grin—he knew by that triumphant look on her face that she had beat both Virot and Jackson to the shelter. _Good for her_, Paris thought as he briefly checked in with his junior officers. He didn't even stop and wonder why it mattered to him so much.

---

Cadet First Class Tom Paris groaned as his alarm went off, then grinned as he realized that he could ignore it. "Computer, stop alarm," he murmured. With another smile, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke again, he had a brief moment of panic at the thought that he had overslept before he remembered that it was intentional. As a company commander, he had no official duties until that evening; the plebes were taking their final rounds of exams, the ones that would determine whether or not they could enroll in classes as cadets at Starfleet Academy.

Looking back, he couldn't quite believe that it had been six weeks already—six weeks of waking up earlier than anyone should, chasing around plebes, trying to keep any of them—and by 'any of them', he meant Torres—from doing anything stupid enough to get kicked out of the Preparatory Program. He had worked hard as the company commander, harder than he thought he would, but so far, it was paying off. None of his plebes had left or gotten kicked out, and the bet with Sarah Markeson was still on.

Of course, it went without saying that that would change by the end of the day. By definition, only sixty percent of the plebes who started the prep program would be able to call themselves Cadet Fourth Class at the end of the day. Of the forty percent that didn't make the cut, half would be invited to try again the next year, and half would be out for good. He had his own theories about which plebes from his company would fall into which categories, but he was reserving judgment for the time being.

Later that day, he was sitting by the fountain in the center of campus, working on flight plans for Nova Squadron, when his PADD chirped, indicating that the results from the exams were in. Feeling suddenly nervous, he hesitated a second before opening the file.

Overall, Delta Company did pretty well—they were down to forty cadets, from sixty plebes. The average company lost twenty-four, so they beat the curve. As an afterthought, he checked the results from Gamma Company—Sarah Markeson's company—and groaned audibly. She only lost eighteen. He figured that meant he lost the bet. Feeling suddenly depressed, he didn't even bother to check which plebes had been accepted and which had been made to leave, which was why when he saw the familiar figure of one of his plebes walk by in uniform a few minutes later, he did a double-take in surprise.

"Hey, Torres!" he called out, stopping her in her tracks. "Nice pip."

She reached up to her collar, self-consciously fingering the rectangular pip she had just earned. "Thanks," she finally said. She hesitated for a moment, then quickly said, "A bunch of us are meeting in the Union to celebrate passing, if you wanted to join us?"

It was a tempting offer, and for a second, he seriously considered accepting, but then shook his head. He didn't want his former plebes to feel awkward around a senior cadet when they should be celebrating. "Naw, I think I'll ruin the party. Go have fun, you earned it—_Cadet_."

She gave him a quick grin before waving her good-bye and resuming her trek toward the Cadet Union Building. He chuckled and shook his head slightly; in the six weeks that he had known her, this was probably the first time he had seen her without either a scowl or smirk on her face. Maybe there was another side to the often-angry half-Klingon plebe after all.

Still shaking his head in disbelief, he checked the exam scores for the plebes in Delta Company. Just as he figured, Torres had scored higher than the 95th percentile in the math and science exams, somewhere in the middle for the humanities, and earned barely passing scores for Officership and diplomacy. He chuckled; there was no doubt in his mind that the scores were doctored, bumping hers into the passing range. He knew how the Academy could work sometimes; when they had an applicant with her obvious talent in math and engineering, a half-Klingon who could make them look diverse and help the often-uneasy alliance with the Empire, and a woman who could compete in the decathlon, they weren't about to let a few low test scores stand in their way of letting her in.

---

That evening, Paris was packing his duffle for his weekend away before classes began the following Monday. It was his first weekend of liberty all summer, and he had big plans to leave the plebes and the Academy behind for a few days. He was heading out to Mars to meet up with a friend finishing her summer internship at Utopia Planitia, and Seth, his former roommate, was going to join them, the halfway point of his trip back from Titan. They would probably go on the tour of Martian bars and pubs, and board the transport Sunday night either hungover or still drunk. They couldn't think of a better way to officially start their last year at the Academy.

He was just closing the bag when he heard the announcer chime on his door. "Come in," he said, surprised. He wasn't expecting visitors. "Ah, Markeson," he said with a slight smirk when he saw who was standing there. "Come to collect?"

She laughed slightly. "I wish," she said, holding out a bottle of wine. "I had one plebe who wasn't given the option of taking exams, so technically, I lost a plebe before you did. It's a McKinley Springs 2363 Cabernet Sauvignon. Very good year, and it should be properly aged by now. This is the best bottle I have."

He raised his eyebrows, impressed. He knew a little about wine, just enough to know that this was, indeed, a very good bottle. "Geez, Sarah," he said with a sly grin, "I much prefer merlot."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Don't you know anything about wine?" she asked. "The merlot grapes can't be grown in the Horse Heaven Hills of Washington. Besides, a good Cab has much more flavor than a merlot."

"More flavor, hmm?" he asked, feigning thoughtfulness. "I don't know if I can handle more flavor by myself. Maybe you should come in and help me appreciate this flavor." There was a suggestive tone in his voice that left no question as to what he had in mind.

The smile appeared on her face slowly, slightly teasing. Even though she didn't travel in the same social circles as Tom Paris, there wasn't a girl at the Academy who didn't know that he was a flirt, and that according to rumor, he lived up to his claims. "I think that might be a good idea," she said, her voice a bit lower than usual.

He grinned and moved aside to let her in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5—2366**

* * *

The months moved by quickly, more quickly than Cadet Tom Paris would have liked. After all, this last year at the Academy was his last chance to be a kid, his last chance to mess around and have fun before beginning his career as a brand-new ensign on some starship somewhere.

The middle of December found Paris in his room, eying the stack of PADDs on his desk, trying to figure out where to start. It was the last week of the fall semester, finals week, and his preference list for postings was due before his last final. He sighed heavily. _What I wouldn't do to go back to this summer, when all I had to worry about was coming up with a creative new way of tormenting sixty plebes._ He chuckled at the thought; for as much as he dreaded his assignment as a company commander, he had enjoyed the experience. After classes had started in August, his responsibilities as such were greatly reduced, requiring only one or two formations a month.

Deciding that reminiscing over the events of a few months ago wasn't going to reduce his workload any, he grabbed the first PADD on the stack, determined to get some work done. He groaned when he saw what he picked up: the postings preference list. _It has to be done at some point_, he told himself, stopping himself from setting it aside.

He knew what assignment he _wanted_: Starfleet Research and Development Test Flight Division. The test pilots were the best in the Fleet, flying the most advanced ships in the known galaxy, pushing their ships to the limits, doing the wildest stunts imaginable. He had wanted to be a test pilot since he was in high school, competing in the stunt division of his junior flight league. He mentioned it to his father once, who just frowned disapprovingly and proceeded to give a lecture about how dangerous it was, which somehow morphed into a lecture about the honor of serving on a ship, the duty to a captain, the pledge to seek out new life and new civilizations. Tom had tuned him out after the first few minutes, like he always did.

_You're not a kid anymore_, he scolded himself. His father should know that—after all, _he_ was the one pushing his only son toward command. He wouldn't have gone to the trouble of getting Tom a position as a company commander if he didn't think that his son had shown some level of maturity. With a resolute air, he moved Test Flight Division to his top ranking. The waiting list for a test pilot was pretty long, so he probably wouldn't get it anyway, but at least he was trying. Not caring about the other positions, he chose "helm officer" and randomly put five ships on the list. He figured his father would do all that he could to get Tom a position on the most "career-advancing" ship anyway, so there was no use putting much thought into it.

That done, he set the PADD aside and picked up another. He sighed. It was going to be a long week.

---

For most cadets, the Academy Winter Ball was _the_ event of the year, the chance to see and be seen. In truth, the name was a bit of a misnomer; it wasn't actually an Academy event, it was a faculty event, a large room filled with just about everyone who had taught at least one course at the Academy, along with their families. The only cadets in attendance were those who had earned the honor of attending, or those who belonged to the "family" category. That was why it was Cadet First Class Tom Paris' thirteenth Winter Ball, at the age of twenty-one.

Even if it hadn't been for the one or two classes a year that Admiral Owen Paris taught at Starfleet Academy, Paris would have found himself in that room, in that uncomfortable dress uniform. Three days before, he had received word that his company had the highest marks at the Academy. His plebes had been thrilled with the invitation, immediately checking to make sure that they replicated their dress uniforms in the right size, that they all had their single pips, that they were displaying their few medals in the proper order. Paris had been indifferent, but he didn't want to ruin their fun.

A few hours after he had arrived, he was chatting with Lydia Baben, the daughter of a newly promoted admiral and a junior at New York University, studying art history. She was tall and thin, with long dark hair and bright blue eyes, and completely clueless. Just the type of girl he liked to run into at these things. She was in the middle of a detailed monologue about Vincent Van Gogh and his struggle with bipolar disorder when Paris spotted the petite form of one of his plebes, her dark curls elegantly pinned up, a vague expression of discomfort on her face as she loitered by the dessert table, trying to look interested, but never actually eating anything. He excused himself from Lydia, who didn't seem to care, and made his way toward the desserts.

"Good evening, Cadet," he said lightly as he stood next to her, feigning interest in the tiny little pastries he couldn't begin to identify.

She spun toward him, her expression instantly slightly wary, slightly on-guard, the same expression she always wore around him. He couldn't blame her for that; he hadn't exactly made things easy for her over the last six months. She hadn't made things easy for him, either, so he figured he was only giving as good as he got. "Hello, sir," she finally replied, seeming resigned to the conversation.

"I suppose congratulations are in order for making it through your first semester?"

She snorted lightly. "Just barely," she said, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "I almost failed Interstellar History."

He didn't know what she considered 'almost failing' to be, but didn't press it. "I wish I knew," he told her. "I'm a history minor, I could have helped."

She stiffened at his words. "I don't need anyone's help, _sir_," she retorted.

He stared at her for a second before responding, taking in her expression, her posture, the complicated-appearing hairstyle, so different from the quick buns or tight braids. This looked, well, _feminine_. He would be willing to bet one of her roommates had done it for her. He forced himself back to the issue at hand. "Yeah, I know," he said, slightly sarcastic. "You're the most brilliant cadet to ever grace the halls of the Academy." She flushed at his words, and looked ready for an angry retort, but he didn't give her the opening. "It's okay to ask for help when you need it, Torres. It's not a sign of weakness."

Her cheeks were still red as she stared back at him. "I'll take that under advisement, sir," she said through gritted teeth.

He grinned. "Good. Do you want to dance?"

She blinked in surprise at the sudden change of topic. "I'm not very good," she finally said.

"It's okay," he replied, still grinning. "I've had lots of practice. Just follow my lead."

Her eyes darted to the side before going back to his face, her mind quickly trying to find an excuse. "What will people think, a company commander dancing with one of his plebes?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's a dance, Torres, not a marriage proposal. Commanding officers dance with their junior officers all the time. My dad always does." She seemed to think about it for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. He grinned as he offered his arm, at her uncertainty as she hooked her arm around his.

They were almost to the dance floor when she froze suddenly, her eyes fixed on a couple just entering from the main door. Confused, Paris followed her gaze. He didn't recognize the petite, dark-haired, part-Vulcan woman in a teal dress uniform, nor the middle-aged man in well-tailored civilian formal attire escorting her in, but Torres obviously did. In a movement so fast he couldn't begin to comprehend what was happening, Torres removed her arm from his and spun quickly away, heading toward the back door as quickly as she could without attracting attention.

He gave her a few minutes before following her out to the large gardens behind the building. As soon as stepped outside, he paused, taken momentarily aback by the cold San Francisco air. _You'd think they could find a better place to hold these parties_, he thought bitterly. _Like Tahiti, or Brazil…_ Forcing that thought out of his mind, he began scanning the gardens, steeling himself for what was bound to be a violent encounter with an angry half-Klingon.

To his surprise, he found her on a bench, her legs folded up, her arms hugging her knees to her chest, her body utterly still except for the shivers she seemed oblivious to. As he got closer, he could see the trails of tears running down her cheeks.

"Hey," he said softly, crouching down beside her. He brought his hand up to place on her arm, then reconsidered, placing it on the bench. "Torres? You okay?" For a second, she didn't move, then nodded slightly. He didn't take that for an affirmation. "What is it?" he pressed gently.

This time, she shook her head slowly from side to side. "No," she whispered.

"Torres…B'Elanna. Talk to me."

"No," she repeated. He waited patiently, beginning to feel the ache in his thighs from crouching down. He wasn't sure how much of this he'd be able to take. "The _petaQ_," she said quietly, softly enough that Paris wasn't sure he heard anything at all. "I didn't think I'd see him here… didn't think I'd ever see him, _anywhere_."

"Who?" he pressed gently, tentatively placing his hand on her calf, hoping it was a comforting gesture. She didn't move it away.

"My father," she said, finally turning to face him. "The man who walked in, with that woman on his arm. I didn't know… didn't think that… I've got to get out of here." She swung her legs quickly toward the ground, again startling Paris in her speed. Straightening to a stand, she began walking down one of the garden paths.

"You can't get out that way," Paris said quietly, following a safe distance behind her. "Behind the gardens are woods, and that bumps into the properties of some of Earth's most elite. There's a rather large forcefield." She turned and gave him a questioning look, which he returned with a slightly bitter laugh. "You don't corner the market on trying to get away from your parents," he pointed out. "I've been coming to this same party every year since I was eight, when my dad joined the Admiralty. Believe me, I've searched for every possible way out. In all those years, the only one I've found is the front door. Besides," he said, his voice suddenly falsely chipper, "it's too early to leave. It wouldn't be socially acceptable."

"I don't give a damn about what's 'socially acceptable'!" she spit at him.

He gave her a quick grin, then his expression turned serious again. "The company was invited so you guys can be recognized. You can't leave before they do that. It would be embarrassing for the Academy's administration, and embarrassing them isn't a good idea."

She sagged under his words, knowing that he was right. "I can't go back in there," she said, gesturing toward the party.

"Well, you can't stay out here, either. You look like you're about to freeze to death," he pointed out. She looked surprised; he wondered if he had realized that she had been shivering. "Come on," he said. "There are heaters on the porch. We can stay out there until a 'socially acceptable' time to leave."

She thought about it for a moment, then gave a short nod and followed him back toward the porch, which was nearly deserted. She took a seat in the corner, he took one perpendicular to hers. They weren't facing each other, but neither were they facing the same direction. "Want to talk about it?" he asked after a few minutes of silence.

"No," she said automatically. A few seconds later, she reconsidered, and gave a heavy sigh as she turned to face him. "I haven't seen him since I was five," she said softly, a far-away look in her eyes. "I woke up one morning, saw his bags by the front door. I thought he was going on a consulting trip, asked him when he'd be back. He had this really strange expression on his face, tried to explain that he _wouldn't_ be coming back, but I just didn't get. I didn't get it. I _don't_ get it. I _worshipped_ him, and he adored me—at least, I _thought_ he did. But that was twelve years ago, this is the first time I've seen him, and with a new woman on his arm. A friend? Lover? _Wife_? Does he have a whole new family, a new little girl he calls his 'little princess'?" She took a deep breath to collect herself, then continued, her voice low. "When I figured out that he wasn't coming back, I tried to figure out why. Tried to figure out where I had gone wrong, when he stopped loving me. I figured," she faltered, her hand going to her forehead, touching her ridges tentatively before dropping her hand back to her lap. "I figured it was because I wasn't human enough, was too _Klingon_. I tried everything to cover that up—hats, scarves, bangs—but I always knew that I wasn't fooling anyone, that I was still Klingon, and everyone knew it."

She lapsed into silence again, her eyes still far away. Paris studied her for a few minutes. "When I was younger, my dad made me get these awful 'summer hair cuts'," he began. She turned to face him, her eyebrows raised. "It was terrible," he continued. "and everyone made fun of me. I wore a hat everywhere until it grew back out to a respectable length."

She stared at him incredulously for a moment. "Are you comparing a few bad hair cuts to everything I went through growing up on a very human colony?" she demanded.

He grinned quickly at her. "My point is, kids always make fun of each other for stupid, superficial things, but that's not who we are. Bad haircuts, different foreheads—those _aren't_ who we are. Eventually, it stops, and looking back, you wonder why you let it bother you so much in the first place." He paused, grew thoughtful. "I guess the other point is that parents are always doing things to make us feel less than adequate. I guess that one really doesn't stop. Or if it does, I haven't reached that point yet." He gave her a crooked smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring up my own angst."

She studied him frankly, as if wondering what could have been so horrible about his admiral's-son upbringing. _Oh, if only you know_, he thought bitterly. Instead of opening it up for debate about who had the worse father, he gently said, "Maybe you should talk to him."

She snorted at the thought. "And say what? 'Hi, Dad, it's me, B'Elanna. You know, the half-Klingon daughter you haven't said a word to in more than a decade?' No thanks."

He shrugged. "New beginnings have to start somewhere."

"This coming from the guy who grew up with his father and still doesn't know how to talk to him?" He was surprised at her words, amazed that she was able to read between the few lines that he had said. He opened his mouth to reply, but an interruption from a suddenly opened door stopped them.

"Hey, BLT, they're asking us to line up for formation to be recognized," Cadet Max Burke said from the doorway. Torres gave Paris a quick look, rolling her eyes at the nickname. Paris had to struggle to keep from laughing aloud; Burke was one of the more gregarious cadets in the company, actually reminding Paris a bit of himself at that age. He wasn't really surprised to see him taken by the half-Klingon. If it weren't for the fact that he was her company commander, he would consider going after her himself. "Oh, hey, sir," Burke said, seeing Paris for the first time. "They're looking for you, too."

"Thanks, Burke," he said crisply, standing up and heading for the door. He looked back to make sure Torres was following, and gave her an encouraging smile as they entered the room.

As he walked toward Admiral Brandt and the other administrators, he thought about his previous thought—did he really mean it, that he would go after her if she weren't his plebe? She was fierce, opinionated, obstinate, with a temper that he was surprised hadn't resulted in a few broken jaws. But she also had a passion, a fire inside of her, that was both intimidating and alluring.

_Yes_, he thought as he called the plebes to attention, _if it weren't for me being her company commander, I would go after her myself_.

It didn't even occur to him that he wouldn't be her company commander forever.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6—2367**

* * *

"Dismissed," Cadet First Class Tom Paris said after a moment's pause. Obediently, just as they had been taught, the group of first year cadets orderly made their way out of the room they had used for their company formation. All but one.

It was January, the first Friday of the new semester. The students had been given a week to get back into the Academy schedule after winter break before it was time to meet up with their company commander again. There was nothing special about this formation; he welcomed them back, reminded them of their duties, told them not to hesitate if they had any question, and dismissed them. Routine. Boring. Just like it always was. Just like Starfleet always was.

He swallowed the recent distaste as he turned toward the lingering cadet. He hadn't always been so bitter about Starfleet; in fact, he could remember when he was young, when his father was still a captain, how he wanted nothing more than to be a Starfleet officer, to become a captain just like his father. As he got older and more accomplished as a pilot, he began to tweak the dream—he still wanted Starfleet, but it was the pilot's seat he wanted, not the captain's chair. For a brief period, he contemplated the Earth Navy instead, but when it came down to it, he always knew it would be Starfleet for him. But now, only a few months from graduating, and all he wanted to do was turn and run away as fast as he could. "Do you need something, Cadet?" he asked, more brusque than intended.

Cadet Fourth Class B'Elanna Torres looked momentarily startled at his tone, but then slipped on that familiar mask of wariness and distrust. She stiffened even more from her already tense posture. "Forget it," she snapped, turning to walk away.

"Wait," Paris said automatically, then sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—well, it's been a hell of a week for me." She relaxed slightly, turning back toward him, but not making any move to position herself closer. "What do you need?" he asked.

She hesitated again. "Well, you said if we needed help with anything, we could ask you. It's not the most difficult topic, definitely not the most exciting, but—"

"Torres," he interrupted, laughing slightly. "You're rambling. What class?"

She flushed, not knowing why she was suddenly uncomfortable. "Introduction to Basic Officership," she finally admitted.

He bit back a laugh at that. Introduction to Basic Officership, or Officership 1, as it was most commonly called, was actually a very simple class, little more than memorizing protocols, not requiring any thought or analysis at all. For someone with a memory as good as Torres', she shouldn't have any problem. Of course, that was a memory for numbers and engine specifications, not rules and regulations she had no concept of. "Sure," he finally said. "Is there anything specific that's giving you problems, or just the class in general?"

"Just the class in general," she grudgedly admitted. "I don't see the point!" she exclaimed, frustrated.

This time, he did laugh. "There usually isn't a point," he said gently. "You have the class Tuesdays and Thursdays, right? How about if we meet on Monday and Wednesday evenings, to discuss your readings for the next day? Once you get the hang of the class, which shouldn't take long, you'll probably want to cut it down to once a week, but let's start with this."

She gave a quick nod, seeming relieved. "That sounds good." She turned to leave, but before she crossed through the door, she turned back. She stared at him for a moment before saying, "Thank you, sir. Have a good weekend."

As Paris stood there, watching the doors slide closed behind her, he couldn't help but wonder what it was about her that had him so intrigued.

---

Tom Paris carefully balanced the mug of raktajino in his hand as he reached for the door chime. He didn't usually make it a habit to visit the first year cadets in their quarters, but for special occasions, he made an exception.

He wasn't sure which of the four girls ordered the doors opened, but he was grateful that they slid opened automatically, instead of the hinged doors of some of the other buildings, such as the one he lived in his second and third years. Once he was fully revealed in the doorway, two of the girls immediately struggled to their feet in attention. The other two didn't even seem to notice that anything had happened. "Sit down," he said with a laugh. "I just came to drop this off for Torres."

At the sound of her name, B'Elanna Torres snapped her head up in surprise, her expression changing to one of confusion when she saw the raktajino he was carrying, a candle barely propped up in the thick cream. "Happy birthday," he said, placing it in front of her on her desk with a flourish.

"What's this?" she finally managed.

"You're supposed to blow out the candle," he explained lightly.

"I know _that_," she shot back angrily, leaning forward to extinguish it with a quick puff of air. "What's it for?"

"Your birthday. Just like how I brought O'Neill the cheesecake and Srani the chocolate cake with ice cream," he explained.

She looked at him as if he had grown another head. "But a _raktajino_?" she asked in disbelief.

This time, it was Cadet Reyana Srani who answered. "Well, B'Elanna, you're not exactly known for consuming a lot of desserts, but everyone knows you like your raktajino."

Torres rolled her eyes at her roommate. "This is pointless. I could have replicated myself a mug of raktajino."

Srani grinned. "It's not about the gift, it's about the meaning behind it. Cadet Paris is offering you a gift to celebrate the anniversary of your birth, in order to make you feel a part of this custom, and to bring you feelings of belonging and importance in worth, that someone remembered your birthday and made the effort to attempt to celebrate it with you."

"Betazoids," Paris said with a roll of his eyes and a grin. "You always have to explain everything, don't you?" Srani only smiled in reply, her black eyes twinkling.

"I wish people would _stop_ feeling the need to 'celebrate the anniversary of my birth'," Torres grumbled. "It's a silly tradition, and I already agreed to go out to dinner with Burke tonight to 'celebrate'. As if either of us has the time. I know he has an exam in his engineering course tomorrow." She paused before turning back to her company commander. "But, thank you for the raktajino," she said, bringing the mug up to her lips for a sip.

"Glad you like it," Paris replied, his smile still in place. He bid farewell to the cadets and ducked out of the room, trying to place the sudden feeling of discomfort at hearing of Torres' dinner plans. _They're friends, Torres and Burke_, he told himself. _Besides, why do you even care?_

---

Six weeks into the semester, Paris would have thought that Torres would have a handle on Officership 1, or, at the very least, an idea of how to study for it, but whenever he hinted that she was beginning to understand and that they should cut their tutoring sessions down to once a week, she found a reason to contradict him. Finally, he decided to put matters into his own hands.

"This isn't that hard, Torres," he said for what had to be the fifth time that hour, a frown on his face. "I was able to recite these protocols before I could read Dr. Seuss."

She turned to glare at him. "Not all of us were raised by admirals, Paris," she growled. "Who's Dr. Seuss, anyway? Is that some sort of medical text?"

He laughed. "Hardly. Dr. Seuss wrote some pretty silly children's books years and years ago, like _Green Eggs and Ham_ and _Oh, The Places You'll Go_. Great books." His voice took on a far away tone.

"Right," Torres replied, rolling her eyes. "But I don't see what that has to do with first contact procedures."

He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I don't get it, Torres. You can glance at an engine schematic and be able to recite all the components and their exact specifications, but you can't remember a few Starfleet protocols."

"Engine schematics make sense," she muttered darkly, pushing a loose curl away from her face. "This stuff doesn't."

"You're just not trying hard enough," Paris countered, ignoring her glare. "I don't think working on this twice a week is getting you anywhere."

She glared at him again. "You just going to quit on me, Paris?" she demanded.

"That's not what I'm saying," he argued. "I was going to say that once a week—Monday—should be enough. And since I've been futilely trying to help you for the past six weeks, you owe me a favor."

"What would that be?" she asked in clipped tones, immediately on guard.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Torres," he scoffed. "I have to give a presentation and demonstrate proper _bat'leth_ technique for my semester project for Combatives. You want to help me train?"

She studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. "You're assuming that just because I have a Klingon mother, I know how to use a _bat'leth_," she stated flatly.

"Do you?"

For a moment, she didn't respond as she continued to study him. "Yeah," she finally admitted. "But if I'm going to help you on this, it's on my terms. You do what I say, no questions asked."

"Getting pretty demanding for a lowly plebe, aren't you?" Paris teased.

She shrugged a shoulder, turning away from him. "Fine. Your choice," she said.

He pretended to think about it for a moment, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, I'll do it your way. I'll reserve one of the training holosuites for Wednesday at 1900. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just that giant ego of yours," Torres said, turning back to her Officership assignment. "Be prepared to let it go."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7—2367**

* * *

Paris arrived at the training holosuite a few minutes before 1900 to find Torres already there, the standard combatives program already running. When he walked in, she was tying what appeared to be leather sleeves over her arms, using her teeth to pull the straps tightly.

He raised his eyebrows at her outfit—she had a long leather apron, for lack of a better term, tied together in the back, mostly covering her training uniform for the track team, the same training uniforms the Academy was using thirteen years ago, when Cadet Fourth Class Sydney Paris started on the track team. "Nice to see that the track uniforms haven't changed in more than a decade," he said lightly, "except I don't think my sister ever wore leather over hers."

She rolled her eyes at him. "It's training armor. Yours is over there," she said, pointing with her chin.

He frowned at the pile of leather neatly resting on a bench. "What's the point? The safeties will be on anyway."

She smirked at him. "The safeties will be _halfway_ on," she said. "No serious injuries, but you may get some cuts and bruises."

His eyes flew open. "Are you insane?" he asked in disbelief.

"I said, no serious injuries," she replied with an indignant frown. "Part of learning how to fight with a _bat'leth_ is learning how to control your own reactions. You're not going to learn how to avoid the pain, and how to deal with it, if you don't train with it."

"Is this one of your Klingon tricks I'm not supposed to question?" he asked heatedly.

She shrugged. "I told you, if you want to do this, you do it my way. Your choice."

He stared at her for a moment, seriously tempted to back down. He didn't know exactly how low she had set the safeties, but he hadn't suggested that she help him train in order to give her a chance to beat up on him. Hell, he had given her enough _reasons_ to beat up on him over the past eight months. "Fine," he conceded. "But if your insistence on doing this the Klingon way results in any injuries…"

She rolled her eyes at him again. "Quit worrying so much. Here, let me show you how these go on." She took the leather armor from him, explaining how to put the larger piece on as she did it for him. It was actually much more complicated than the simple apron he initially thought it was—of course, the Klingons couldn't do anything easy—but he found himself incapable of following her words, distracted by the feel of her hands lightly brushing against the back of his neck as she pulled the leather straps tight. _Whoa, Paris_, he scolded himself. _This is _not_ why you asked for her help for this_. He forced himself back to the present as she began helping him tie the leather sleeves securely.

"Okay, let's start with the basics," Torres said, stepping away from him after making sure his armor was on properly. "Computer, two _bat'leths_, standard specifications." Instantly, the weapons appeared on the holographic floor of the gym. "What do you know about the _bat'leth_?" she asked, bending down to pick one up.

He also retrieved a weapon from the floor. "The first _bat'leth_ was fashioned when Kahless took a lock of his hair—"

"I don't care about the mythical Kahless crap," Torres interrupted with a frown. "I mean, what do you know about using a _bat'leth_?"

"Oh," he said. "Well, the _bat'leth_ is a warrior's blade, designed to—"

"It's bulky and overstated," Torres said flatly, interrupting again. "Just like everything Klingon."

"No, you don't sound bitter at all," Paris joked. When all he got was a glare and a subtle readjustment of the large weapon in her hands, he figured that his usual repertoire of jokes was probably not a good idea at the moment.

"In theory, using the _bat'leth_ takes skill and finesse," Torres continued, ignoring his words. "That's what people say, anyway. In reality, it's too large to put much skill and finesse behind. The victorious _bat'leth_ fighters are almost always the larger, stronger fighters. It's like the joust in that respect—knights a millennia ago didn't need skill to joust, they just held on to long pieces of wood as their horses charged at each other."

Paris didn't know how she knew so much about European knights and their weapons, but he had to admit that her analogy seemed to fit. "So what's the point in learning?"

"To avoid stupid mistakes," she said immediately. She began swinging her blade in a manner that he had seen on some of the vids he had studied. "This may look all impressive, but if a warrior were to walk onto a battlefield swinging around his _bat'leth_ like this, he'd be dead in seconds. With each swing, I'm leaving one side unprotected, see?" He watched, and sure enough, the arm movements required to keep the blade in a smooth arc exposed her flank. "Okay, enough of that. Let's see what you can do."

Awkwardly, he began demonstrating the few moves he knew. She frowned as she watched, but didn't say anything. A few moments into it, she brought up her own weapon, touching the blade lightly to his side. "Ouch!" he exclaimed.

She smiled without mirth. "I barely touched you," she retorted. "You exposed your right side by raising your shoulder higher than necessary." She paused, then added, "Now see why it's important to wear the armor?"

He grumbled something even he didn't comprehend, forcing his mind back to movements. A minute later, he felt her blade at his stomach. "Don't raise your _bat'leth_ so high, especially when fighting someone shorter than you," she admonished.

This continued for awhile, both losing track of the time. She was right; the pain he felt from her _bat'leth_ made him more aware of how important it was to protect himself. As the time went on, his movements became more smooth and even, but hers came faster, with more force. He was beginning to doubt her previous comment about the larger and stronger challenger having the advantage—clearly, she was much better at this than he was.

"You're pretty good at this," he finally said, barely missing the swing of her blade. Feeling fatigued, he turned away from her.

He knew from the dull thud on his back that she had used the blunt, handle portion of her _bat'leth_ to hit him right across the scapulas. "Never turn your back on your opponent," she scolded to his wince. She lowered her weapon. "I _should_ be good at this. I learned on Qo'noS when I was five, and my mother made me practice often after that."

"She must be proud of you," Paris commented as he headed over to his water bottle, trying not to visibly flinch at the bruises he knew were forming.

She snorted as she grabbed her own water bottle. "Right. She always criticized my technique, my form. Said I was too small and built too much like a human to ever be any good with the _bat'leth_. Said I was too human to ever be good at much."

"I'm sure she didn't mean it _that_ way," Paris argued lightly, grimacing as he reached behind him to try to untie the armor.

"Let me get that," Torres said, moving behind him. After a moment of silent untying, she continued. "That's _exactly_ how she meant it. She didn't want me to go to the Academy, scoffed at what she thought was me attempting to be human. I told her I was tired of living with her unrealistic expectations of me. We haven't exactly spoken since then."

Her words struck a chord with Paris; it was almost as if she was speaking about his relationship with his father, with all the unrealistic expectations that came with being an admiral's son. Uncomfortable with that realization, he did the only thing he knew how to do—make a joke. "If only she could see you now, wearing leather armor and fighting with _bat'leths_, then she'd know how far off the mark that was."

His knees hit the hard floor before he could even register the harsh shove she had given him.

---

Cadet First Class Seth Mitchell was checking his final flight plans for Nova Squadron when his door burst unceremoniously open. "Is CJ here?" Cadet Tom Paris asked his former roommate.

"No…" Mitchell said slowly, taking in his friend's disheveled appearance, his stiff, unnatural way of moving. "Do you want me to get him?"

"No!" Paris exclaimed. "I was going to make you get rid of him if he were. Grab your medkit, I need your help." He didn't have a problem with CJ Andrews, his replacement as Seth's roommate and one of the four plebes in their room their first year, but he wanted as few people as possible to know what had happened in the holosuite.

"How do you know I have a medkit in here?" Mitchell asked with an innocent smile, but Paris wasn't interested in playing games.

"We went through that emergency field medic course together second year, and I was your roommate for three years. You keep it on the top shelf of your closet," he snapped, collapsing onto Seth's bed.

Mitchell raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn't say anything as he retrieved the kit. "What do you need?"

As a reply, Paris pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as he did so. When he heard Seth's low whistle, he knew the bruises must have looked as bad as they felt.

"What the hell happened?" Mitchell asked in wonder as he activated the dermal regenerator.

"You know how I have that _bat'leth_ presentation for Combatives?"

"You got this from a training program?" Seth asked in disbelief as he leaned forward and gently pressed on one of the bruises. "Haven't you ever heard of safeties?"

"Ouch! Shit, Seth, that hurts!" Paris hissed. "And it wasn't a training program. I asked Torres help me learn." He heard the familiar hum of the dermal regenerator, followed quickly by the almost-cooling sensation as the instrument began to work.

"You challenged a half-Klingon to a _bat'leth_ contest? Are you _insane_?"

"I didn't _challenge_ her! I asked her to _teach_ me! There's a difference!" Paris protested. He winced again. "I didn't expect her to be so vicious in her instructive methods."

Mitchell snorted. "What did you expect, Tom, the way you've been baiting her all year? Turn over, I'm done with the bruises on your back." Paris rolled over onto his back, sending a frustrated sigh toward the ceiling, which Mitchell correctly read into. "Keeping her at the Academy isn't your job, Paris. Yeah, I know, you want to be the best company commander possible, but ultimately, it's up to _her_ to figure out whether or not she wants to put her temper in check enough to stick around. Unless," he said as if suddenly realizing, "unless you have _another_ reason for letting her kick your ass in a training program." Paris didn't say anything, still staring up at the ceiling. Seth stopped what he was doing, stepping into his former roommate's line of sight. "_Bad idea_, Paris," he scolded. "Bad, bad, bad. She's your _plebe_. If you do anything, _anything_, you can forget about your efforts to keep her in the Academy, you can forget about your dream of making the Test Flight Division; hell, you can even forget about your dad being able to pull you out of this one."

"You're reading too much into this, Seth," Paris protested, jumping up and throwing his shirt back on with a glare. "She can barely stand to be in the same room as me, so inappropriate relationships with a subordinate cadet are the least of my worries."

"Uh-huh," Mitchell replied, disbelieving. "And what are your worries?"

Paris glanced back at Mitchell before walking out the door. "Surviving Torres' training regimen."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8—2367**

* * *

Going to Academy sporting events wasn't really Tom Paris' thing, especially a week before Nova Squadron's largest competition of the year, but he was willing to make exceptions—especially when Admiral Sorenson told him too. The Starfleet Invite Track and Field meet, while not the biggest competition of the season, was the most attended and most talked about among the cadets. It was the last big meet of the year before the championship competitions, and it was all Starfleet—a track team from each of the Academy campuses, all hoping to win bragging rights as the top Starfleet team. From what Paris had heard, Starfleet Academy San Francisco had their first real shot in over a decade.

He scanned the stadium, shading his eyes with his hand, trying to remember where Sorenson had said his company would be sitting. It was somewhere near the field, he knew that, but couldn't get more specific than that. "Cadet Paris, sir!" he heard a voice calling out to his right. He spun quickly to see Cadet Maria Ruiz, one of Torres' roommates, standing and waving him over. "You here to watch B'Elanna?" she asked as he approached.

"Yeah, company bonding time," he replied with a grin, taking the empty seat next to her. Several of his plebes called out their greetings and clasped his shoulders, and he did a quick count; not including Torres, who was competing, he was only missing one. "Anyone see Srani?"

"She's assisting the team," Cadet Maggie O'Neill told him, pointing down the field. Translation: she was assisting Torres. The Betazoid roommate was one of the few people capable of keeping the half-Klingon calm. Well, calmer.

"You have your posting assignment yet, sir?" Cadet Qui asked from a few rows behind him.

"Not yet," he replied, twisting slightly to answer. "It should be coming any day now. So, does anyone know when Torres' event is?"

There was a slightly uncomfortable silence that fell over the company before Ruiz spoke. "Um, sir? The decathlon is a two-day event. She's going to be competing throughout the whole meet."

_Wonderful_, he thought. So much for just taking a few hours out of his Friday before getting back to his real life.

---

It was halfway into the second day of the Starfleet Invite when Cadet Paris felt his life begin to turn upside down. When he sensed the cadets in his company all stiffen to attention at once, their breaths caught in their throats, he should have seen it coming.

"Thomas," Admiral Owen Paris said sternly, looking down at him from his standing position. "Can we have a word?"

Tom looked up and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Although he had an office on the Academy grounds, the elder Paris preferred the larger office with the better view at Starfleet Headquarters. Seeing him on campus grounds, especially at a sporting event on the weekend, was rare. "Sure, Dad," he said with a wry grin, taking his time to slowly stand and follow his father away from the astonished company of plebes.

"How does the team look out there?" the admiral asked uncomfortably.

The younger Paris studied his father for a second before answering. "Men are in fourth so far, women are in second."

"And the cadet in your company?"

"She's done seven events, with three more to go. She's in second now, but her roommates tell me that she's pretty impressive on the pole vault, which is next. What is this about?"

Nonplussed by the sudden change in topic, Admiral Paris momentarily glanced toward the field before returning his gaze to his son. "Admiral Brand notified me of your posting."

Too impatient to wait for his father to continue, Tom said, "And…"

Admiral Paris frowned again. "I think there's been some sort of mix-up. You were assigned to the Test Flight Division at R&D. I don't know how it happened, but I already talked to Captain Yuri. He said he didn't know how this would have happened, either, with the waiting list being so long for those postings. He said that if you don't want it, nobody's going to make you take the assignment, and Admiral Brackett said that it won't be a problem to get you a ship posting, even this late in the game."

"Wait…what?" Cadet Paris asked, not quite following the conversation. "You mean I got in?"

Admiral Paris blinked once. "Got in?" he repeated with a frown. "You mean you _requested_ this?"

"Well, yeah," Tom admitted. "I didn't think I'd get in, though." Taking in his father's expression, he continued, "You _know_ that this is what I wanted to do. We talked about this."

"And we agreed that a ship's posting would be better for your career," Admiral Paris finished for his son.

The younger Paris frowned. "But _this_ is what I want for my career. I _told_ you that. I don't want to go into command, and I don't care about breaking any records for being the youngest admiral!" He cut himself off, knowing his voice was rising. It wouldn't do any good to lose his temper to his father, especially not in front of half of the cadets at the Academy. It wouldn't make a difference, anyway. He felt like he had been having this same argument with his father since Owen had made admiral.

The look in Admiral Paris' blue eyes turned cold. "Thomas," he said slowly, "I am saying, as your father, someone who cares very much about you and your future, that you should reconsider your decision."

"Me and my future?" Cadet Paris said with a laugh. He didn't know if he wanted to go down this road. Remembering a conversation he had with an angry young plebe weeks before, he felt suddenly empowered. _If a seventeen-year-old secondary school student can stand up to a full blooded Klingon woman, I can stand up to a sixty-year-old admiral who has let himself go_. "Don't you mean you and your reputation?"

"Thomas." Now the voice held a hint of warning. "I _forbid_ you to take that posting."

"Forbid?" Tom asked with a bitter laugh. "_Forbid_? You _forbid_ me to take that positing? In case you haven't noticed, _sir_, I'm an adult. In three weeks, I'll be twenty-two years old. In eight weeks, I'll be a Starfleet Academy graduate. I can make my own decisions, thank you very much. You can't forbid me to take this posting any more than you could forbid Nicki to go to Yale instead of Starfleet Academy, or Johns Hopkins instead of Starfleet Medical. This is _my_ decision, and my decision only. Now if you excuse me, I believe there's a cadet in my company about to compete in the pole vault."

"We are _not_ done here!"

Tom turned back toward his father. "Yes, we are," he said forcefully, again turning to leave.

"Thomas Eugene Paris, if you turn your back on me, I'll—"

"You'll what?" Tom asked, his voice laced with quiet anger. "You'll stop interfering in my life? Stop introducing me as 'my son Thomas, current Nova Squadron leader and company commander, _future Starfleet admiral'_? Stop pulling strings to get me in the most career-advancing classes, meetings with the most influential people, internships at the most resume-building positions? Let me tell you," he said in a low voice, dripping with sarcasm, "I'm _really_ going to miss all that." Without another word, he turned and walked away.

---

By Wednesday, Torres was still excited about her narrow victory at the Starfleet Invite, Paris was still frustrated by his encounter with his father, and it showed in both of their _bat'leth_ techniques. Torres, already the more skilled combatant, had a newfound burst of confidence that translated into even smoother moves, faster exchanges, and more forceful strikes. Paris' moves were stiff, choppy, but much stronger than they had been in previous weeks.

"You're finally getting the hang of this," Torres said with a chuckle.

Although hearing her laugh was a welcome change from her usual wariness toward him, Paris was still in a dour mood. "It was bound to happen eventually," he said dryly, holding his _bat'leth_ in the ready position.

Torres raised her eyebrows at his surliness, but he could tell that she was still in too good of a mood for Paris to get her down. "Well, then, Flyboy, are you so good that you will no longer be requiring my services?"

That at least got a smile out of him. "'Flyboy'?" he repeated. She grinned at him and shrugged slightly before returning her _bat'leth_ to the ready position. He gave a quick nod that he was ready, and they began the now-familiar dance, slowly circling around each other, waiting for an opportunity.

He saw his opening first, and lunged. She skillfully ducked out the way, deflecting the blow with one of her own. This continued for several more minutes, until he managed to land one lucky blow that knocked her off balance. Whether it was a last ditch effort to take him down with her or a mistake, he'll never know, but her _bat'leth_ hooked under his, and as she began to fall backwards, he found himself pitched forward.

At least, that's what he thought happened when he regained his senses and found himself on the ground, B'Elanna Torres under him and two _bat'leths_ between them.

She looked as surprised as he felt to be in that position, but then gave a low chuckle. "Well, this is interesting," she joked.

"_That's_ never happened before," he agreed. He was about to move to get up, but then their eyes locked, and suddenly all thoughts of moving away flew out of his mind.

"You know," Torres said, her voice low and almost sultry, "if this were a _real_ Klingon battle, I'd have a dagger at your throat in seconds."

"That sounds… intriguing," he murmured, slowly leaning closer to her. He could feel her breath on his lips, could almost taste her. For one long, excruciating moment, all that there was to the universe was him, her, and those damn _bat'leths _wedged between them. Right before their lips touched, he suddenly remembered where he was and who he was with. "Damn it!" he said in a tortured voice, straightening from her and pulling himself into a seated position. For a minute, they didn't look at each other, neither saying anything, as both tried to collect themselves. "I'm sorry," he finally said meekly.

"Forget it," she said, her tone clipped.

"Damn it," he repeated. "Let me explain—"

"You don't need to explain anything to me, Paris," Torres cut him off, dragging herself to her feet. "Believe me, I understand."

"No!" he exclaimed. He turned toward her, then stopped himself, keeping his distance. "There are rules, very strict rules, about company commanders getting involved with their plebes. My career would be ruined, and yours would be _over_. You'd be kicked out of the Academy."

She snorted. "You don't need to make excuses, Paris," she said in clipped tones.

"Believe me, Torres, I wish I didn't have to."

Her glare could have burned a hole straight through him. "You're a pig, _sir_," she commented, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Have a good life, Paris." She turned and walked out the door without a second glance in his direction.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9—2372**

* * *

Captain Kathryn Janeway had found herself so involved in Lt. Tom Paris' story that when he stopped talking, it took her a moment to realize it. "That's it?" she demanded with a frown. "How did you get from that to _married?_"

Paris chuckled. "I told you first impressions take awhile to get over. Anyway, it's still a long story, and it's getting late. We should be well-rested when we arrive at Zyria. Do you want to take the first shift sleeping while I keep an eye out on things, or vise versa?"

Janeway had no choice but to concede. She bade him goodnight, and sent him to the aft section for some well-deserved rest.

---

The negotiations went well, just as Captain Janeway had hoped. Neelix had done a good job preparing them for the mission, informing of them of the Zyrians' values and what was important to them. He had said they were known for their culinary tastes—which made both Janeway and Paris hesitant, knowing what Neelix considered 'good culinary taste'—but he also mentioned their eagerness to learn new recipes and how to prepare new food. Hoping this was the case, they collected several seeds from Federation planets, grateful that most were easily replicated, as well as their complete library of recipes.

As it turned out, Neelix had understated how much the Zyrians valued food. They ate four or five meals a day, all of which were very large, and judging by their tall, lean builds—Paris would have been on the small side of average—they had basal metabolic rates to match. Not only that, but to say that their tastes were varied would have been like saying _Voyager_ was a long way from home. Apparently, dealing in foods and recipes was nothing new to them.

The Zyrian delegation managed to fit in four formal receptions for _Voyager_'s representatives in the three days Janeway and Paris were on the planet. As an admiral's daughter and starship captain, it was hardly Janeway's first formal reception, and she could tell from watching Lt. Paris that his similar upbringing as an admiral's son wasn't put to waste. He was at ease with even the most senior officials and interacted well with everyone. Many of the women were drawn to him, most likely due to his light coloring, so different from the burnt orange and dark browns of the Zyrians. He laughed and joked with them in a manner that she would have considered to be heavy flirting only a few days before, but now only saw as politeness, thinking about his tumultuous relationship with a passionate, exotic young woman he had inadvertently left behind.

"You appear deep in thought, Captain," the deep voice of Chancellor Puyater said from behind her.

"I apologize, Chancellor," Janeway said with a slightly laugh. She turned back to Paris with a slight frown. "I was just realizing how little I know about my own people."

His eyes followed hers and he frowned slightly, not quite understanding. "Your lieutenant seems to be a very polite young man," he observed.

"Oh, yes, he is," Janeway quickly affirmed. "He grew up around formal occasions. He's very comfortable in this type of setting." She paused slightly. "I just found out on my way to your planet that he's married, to a beautiful, intelligent, complicated young woman. He begun telling me about their...courtship, for lack of a better term, in the shuttle."

"Ah," Puyater said, nodding in understanding. "And I take it that it is quite a story, not without its difficulties?"

"That's an understatement," she replied with a smile, which faltered as she thought about it. "I hate the thought that I'm responsible for this, that it was my decision that resulted in his distance from his wife, the distances of all of my crew from their families." She smiled ruefully. "After all Lt. Paris went through falling in love with his wife, I hate the thought that he may have to go the rest of his life without her."

The chancellor paused, considering her words. "You and Lt. Paris have been very polite and diplomatic, and have shown much respect for my people and our culture, but we typically keep our borders very guarded. We were planning on trading with you for food and supplies, but after hearing about your plight, I have decided to allow you access to our space as well."

For a second, Janeway was speechless. She had never considered that Paris' story would be the factor that decided their passage through Zyrian space. "Thank you, Chancellor," she said emphatically. "I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me and my crew."

Puyater smiled slightly, his eyes again on _Voyager_'s helmsman, who was now trading stories with some of the Zyrian pilots. "I think I have an idea," he said softly.

---

The first few hours of the return trip, Paris entertained Captain Janeway with some of the stories he had heard from the Zyrian pilots, but she found herself barely able to pay attention, her thoughts still on Puyater's explanation for allowing passage through Zyrian space.

"Tom," she said during a break between stories, her first words since they began their return trip. "Your…history, with your wife. What happened after you graduated from the Academy?"

"Not much," he replied honestly. "I graduated, got an apartment near R&D, and settled in for the glamorous life of the most junior test pilot in the division. My work was hard, but I loved it, and most importantly, it kept me busy enough to stay out of trouble." He chuckled slightly. "Life went on, time went on. I started thinking about B'Elanna less and less, and when she did pop into my mind, I convinced myself that it was just idle curiosity, wanting to know what happened to the cadet I put so much time and effort into getting to follow the rules. I worked at San Francisco R&D for almost a year and a half before I was promoted and transferred to Utopia Planitia." He grinned. "She was definitely the _last_ person I expected to show up unannounced at my apartment door."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10—2368**

* * *

Lieutenant junior grade Tom Paris was pouring a couple glasses of wine when the door to his apartment chimed. "That's probably Mitch," he said with a slight eye-roll to his companion. She raised her eyebrows, amused. "I'll get rid of him."

He was still holding the half-empty bottle of Merlot when he opened the door. As soon as he saw who it was, his eyes widened in surprise. "Torres?" he asked with a frown. "What are you doing here?"

She smiled slightly up at him, her dark eyes bright but slightly hesitant. "I, um," she paused slightly, turning her eyes from his and seeing the tall redhead on his couch for the first time. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company."

"Yeah," he said with an ironic smile. "Wait here for a minute, okay?" She nodded as the doors slid closed, her still in the corridor and him still in his apartment.

"Sorry, Ashley," he apologized to the engineering ensign. "She was one of my plebes when I was a company commander."

"You were a company commander?" Ensign Ashley Wilson asked, amused. She shrugged a shoulder and gave him a small grin. "No problem. You want me to stay and wait, or is this going to take awhile?"

"I have no idea," he confessed. "I haven't seen her since the company's last formation. I don't know why she's here."

"Ah, I see," Wilson said, her voice teasing. "The mysterious young cadet shows up at her former senior officer's quarters late in the evening…" she let her voice trail off, letting him finish that thought.

"Hardly," Paris replied dryly. "She couldn't stand me."

"Then I don't have to be worried?"

He rolled his eyes. "About what?" They both knew that this was nothing serious.

She grinned at him and kissed him lightly. "I still have reports to finish anyway. See you at work tomorrow?"

"Where else would I be?" he asked with a grin. "Goodnight, Ash."

"'Night, Tom." She gave him another teasing grin before breezing out of the apartment.

He waited a moment after Wilson left before opening the door again. Torres was still standing out the corridor, an apologetic expression on her face. "I didn't mean to run your date off," she said.

He shrugged as he stepped out into the hallway. "No big deal. It was just a working dinner." That technically wasn't true—although they were planning on going over some the specs for the newest R&D project over dinner, that wasn't the only thing on either of their agendas. "Do you want to go somewhere and get some coffee?" She nodded the affirmative and allowed him to lead her down the hall to the lift and out of the apartment complex. Paris had no idea what he should say to her, and she wasn't volunteering anything, so the trip was a quiet one.

As they began to walk the streets of Mars Station, Paris decided he had enough of the mystery. "What brings you to Mars?" he asked, polite but firm enough to let her know that he found the whole scenario a bit strange.

She turned to face him, cocking her head slightly to the side before turning her gaze back to the front. "I just got back from my space walks." While that was undoubtedly a true statement, he didn't see what it had to do with her presence on the red planet. He waited patiently, and sure enough, she continued. "I had a week break before I left for Junior Survival Strategies. There's an engineering course at Utopia Planitia during winter break, an officer's level course, and I was invited to apply. I have my interview tomorrow." She paused for a moment before speaking again. "I decided on a whim to come by and see you." She turned back to him and gave him a small grin. "I should have commed first, apparently."

For some reason, he found himself grinning back. "Officer's level engineering course, hmm?" he asked, his eyebrows raised. "That's pretty impressive for someone who could barely make it through Interstellar History without getting in a fight."

"Hey, he started it," she replied defensively. He only grinned and shook his head slightly in reply.

They arrived at Paris' favorite coffee shop at Mars Station and took their drinks to a booth by one of the large front windows. Torres studied the view with a thoughtful expression as she sipped her raktajino. "Penny for your thoughts?" Paris asked.

"What?" Torres asked with a frown.

"It's an old expression," Paris explained. "A penny was a coin, a form of currency. It means, what are you thinking?"

"Oh," she said, lapsing into silence again. "I think this might be the same coffee shop where my grandparents met."

"Your grandparents?" he asked in surprise. Based on what she had said about her father at the Winter Ball two years before, he had assumed that she didn't have any contact with her family.

She nodded, her eyes on him. She was strangely calm, had been for the entire evening, and paradoxically, he found that her composure was putting him on edge. "My grandfather was an engineer at UP after graduating from the Academy. My grandmother had a summer journalism internship at the _New York Times_, had an assignment to write about the new ship that was being built. She managed to convince him to answer some questions in exchange for a dinner date. They were married two years later." She raised her eyebrows slightly as she took another sip of her drink. "She started going to my track meets last spring. We went out to dinner a few times, trying to get to know each other again. She's a reporter. She likes to tell stories," she added with a slight shrug.

"Your father's mother?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, my Klingon grandparents used to live on Mars Station," she said dryly.

"Stupid question."

"Yeah."

He chuckled quietly before his expression was serious again. "So have you gotten to know your father again?"

She shook her head and looked away. "No," she said flatly. After a short pause, she added, "but I have met his daughter."

"He has another daughter?"

She nodded. "That woman he was with at the Winter Ball is his wife. According to my grandmother, they got married three years after he left me and my mother. Navi was born three years after that. She's eight."

He studied her expression. "You're okay with this?"

"I am now," she said. "It was hard to take when I first heard it, but none of it is Navi's fault, after all. She's really a not-bad kid. Pretty smart, actually."

"That doesn't surprise me," Paris said dryly, but with a smile. "Bet she's a trouble-maker, too." Torres only quirked an eyebrow in response.

"Believe it or not, I didn't look you up to tell you about my grandmother," Torres said after another stretch of silence. "I, um, well, I wanted to apologize." Her voice was so small and her words so unexpected that it took Paris a moment for her statement to register.

"Apologize?" he finally asked.

She glanced up at him in reluctance. "For the way I acted my entire plebe year," she clarified. "It took me awhile, but I realized that you were trying to help, trying to get me to focus my energy on something constructive instead of biting the heads off of anybody who would disagree with me." She looked down at the table again, but Paris could tell she wasn't finished, and sure enough, her eyes again lifted. "Why? Why did you give it so much effort?"

"Because it required that much work," he replied lightly.

"I'm serious, Paris," she said, her words taking on a slightly sharper edge. "Why did you bother, when it would have been so much easier to discipline me whenever I went against regulations? Or even easier to just let me self-destruct?"

He was surprised at the question. "You were my plebe, I was your commanding officer. You were my responsibility."

She shook her head. "You didn't put that much effort into anyone else in the company. If Burke had been as much trouble as I was, would you have worked as hard to help him?"

"How is Burke, anyway?" Paris asked, hoping to steer her away from the topic.

She waved the question aside. "I don't know. I haven't seen him since we all went into our separate tracks."

"Oh?" he asked, his eyebrows raised. "I thought you two…"

"Ancient history," she said forcefully. "And stop trying to change the subject. Why the extra work?"

Knowing that honesty was the only way to satisfy her questions, he sighed deeply. "Do you remember that day during the summer session, when you and Virot almost came to blows about that group exercise?"

She chuckled slightly. "Virot, wow. I haven't even thought about him since the end of the summer session." She frowned in concentration. "Whatever happened to him, anyway?"

"He was invited to apply again for the next year, but I heard he declined in favor of attending the Vulcan Science Academy." He took a sip of his mocha. "But anyway, that day, I realized something, about you and about Starfleet." He wasn't done talking, and Torres remained silent. "You had a passion about you, a very violent passion, but passion nonetheless, that made—makes—you who you are. It's what makes you such a talented engineer. I realized that if Starfleet had its way, it would take that away from you, make you just another cookie-cutter ensign in some engineering section of some ship somewhere. And if you couldn't play by their rules, you'd leave. Either way, Starfleet would be out of an amazing engineer, and I couldn't let that happen." He took another drink of his coffee, trying to sort his thoughts. "I realized that I had to teach you how to live within Starfleet's rules without being consumed by them."

She studied him for a moment, and he almost squirmed under the intensity of her dark eyes. "You're not a big fan of Starfleet, are you?"

He frowned, trying to figure out how to answer that. "I like Starfleet, the goal of exploration, of seeking out new life and new civilizations, even if my contribution to that goal is only from the helm of an experimental shuttle or starship. It's the institution I have a problem with, the conformity, the following without question." When he looked up again, she was fixing him with that intense gaze.

"How are things with your father?" she asked quietly.

His jaw stiffened involuntarily. "Fine," he replied tersely. He knew she didn't believe him, but she didn't push the issue. She glanced at the chronometer of her pocket PADD and sighed.

"It's getting late," she said reluctantly. "And my interview is pretty early. I should get back to the hotel."

He stood when she did, holding the door open for her. "I'm glad you came by," he said honestly.

"So am I," she replied. She studied him for a beat as they walked down the streets of Mars Station. "I have a question for you."

"Sure," he said.

"Junior Survival Strategies," she said, "any advice?"

"Depends on the admiral you're stuck with. I had my father," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Got a B minus. Who do you have?"

She smiled slightly. "I heard he's a really tough grader, but at least he doesn't play favorites. Some guy named Paris, maybe you've heard of him?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "You have fun with that, Torres. Actually, it probably wouldn't be as bad for you as it was for me. He doesn't have ridiculously high expectations for anyone except his own flesh and blood. Besides, you're both high-strung, type-A personalities, perfectionist science-oriented people. You're going to be fine."

"I hope so," she said with a sigh. "I don't have the best track record with authority figures named Paris."

He laughed again. "Let me know how it goes. You know where to find me when you get back."

She smiled slightly as she paused in the doorway of the commuter lodging at Mars Station, studying him with those big brown eyes. He wished he knew what she was thinking when she had that expression on her face, as if she was trying to analyze everything about the situation at once. "Yeah, I do. And next time, I'll comm before stopping by." She gave him a quick grin. "Goodnight, Paris."

"'Night, Torres. Good luck at that interview." He stood in the street for a moment, watching the doors slide closed again, wondering what had just happened.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11—2368**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris narrowed his eyes slightly as he sent the ship in a tight turn, feeling the slight pull that wasn't covered by the internal dampers. "Delay on the starboard nacelle of two microseconds compared to port," he reported for the on-going record.

_*Lt. Paris,*_ the engineer manning the flight simulator cut in through the comm system, _*there's a message coming in for you from Admiral Paris.*_

Paris sighed, then frowned. Last he knew, his father was still running the Junior Survival Strategies practical experience on some uninhabited planetoid somewhere, and even if he had just returned, relations between the two Paris men were strained enough that Tom wouldn't expect his father to just comm to chat—especially while he was on duty. If there was one thing Tom had gotten from his father's countless lectures growing up, it was that when you were on duty, you better be on duty. "Put it on the screen," he ordered.

As soon as his father's face appeared, the simulated ship seemed to stop, the program frozen. "Admiral," Tom said formally.

It appeared from the admiral's background that he was in a building of some sort, almost hospital-like in the sterility of the décor. The younger Paris' heart jumped a beat, wondering if something had happened to his mother or one of his sisters. "Tom," Owen Paris replied, no hint of the formality that his son had displayed. "We just returned to Earth an hour ago. I, well, I think it would be a good idea for you to come to San Francisco."

Tom felt his eyes widen. Owen Paris rarely minced words. He began to feel that something ominous had happened. "What is it?" he asked with a frown.

The elder Paris paused slightly. "I don't quite know how to say this, but something happened the last day of the practical to B'Elanna. She's in stasis right now. The doctors are with her."

The younger Paris stared blankly at his father's image for several seconds, trying to process his words. Stasis chambers were only used for medical transport and storage in life-threatening situations in which the medical team at hand couldn't fix the problem without killing the patient. "What happened?" he asked once he recovered his voice.

"There was a snake," Owen said, his voice heavy with—regret? Tom had never heard that particular emotion from his father before. "All of our scans revealed that the venom was non-toxic to humans." His voice picked up a bitter edge. "Nobody realized that the venom would react to a protein in the myelin surrounding Klingon nerves, completely destroying it."

Lt. Paris didn't remember much of his biochemistry course, and he was pretty sure such problems weren't covered in his field medic course, but he knew that that couldn't be good. "What's going to happen?" he asked quietly, as if afraid that speaking any louder would somehow jinx her.

Admiral Paris shook his head slightly. "We don't know. I've been in communication with the hybrid neurologist at Starfleet Medical since it happened, but he says there no way to evaluate the situation without seeing her. He's in there now."

"The situation," Tom snorted. "Torres is not a 'situation', she's a…" his voice trailed off, not quite sure how to finish that statement. He straightened slightly in his chair. "I'll be there tomorrow."

---

It had been three days since Admiral Paris' Junior Survival Strategies class returned to San Francisco, three days since Cadet B'Elanna Torres had been transferred to Starfleet Medical, two days since she had been released from stasis. She was still unconscious, still unaware of anything, and according to Dr. Moshe Zalun, the hybrid neurologist, it would still be a few more days, maybe a few more weeks, before the myelin-generating compound she was getting would coat enough of the nerve cells in her brain to allow her to wake up.

Lt. Tom Paris watched his former plebe silently from the chair he had occupied since he arrived, for some reason unable to get up and leave until he knew for sure that she would be okay. If he didn't look too closely, he could convince himself that she was sleeping, her large brown eyes closed, her dark curls flowing gently over her shoulders. When he did bother to look, though, he couldn't miss the signs that this was deeper than slumber. The eyes under the lids didn't move as they would have while dreaming, the blanket covering her was as smooth as it had been when it was placed, belying the fact that she hadn't been tossing and turning. Although he couldn't see it, he knew a muscle stimulator was pressed against both sides of her chest, forcing her diaphragm to contract and relax to allow her to breathe, since the nerves that normally did that job were as functionless as the rest of the nerves in her body. Similar stimulators were on the major muscle groups of her arms and legs, trying to keep those muscles from degrading between physical therapy sessions. There were cortical stimulators on both temples, giving high doses of the myelinating drugs directly to her brain.

"You don't have to do this, Tom." The sudden voice startled Paris from his reverie, and he glanced up to see his father standing in the doorway.

"When she wakes up, someone should be here," the younger Paris replied calmly, not arguing. In the two days since he arrived, he hadn't seen anyone enter her room who wasn't employed by Starfleet Medical.

"Dr. Zalun said it will still be a few days, at the soonest," Owen replied, taking a seat next to his son.

"He said he didn't know what to expect," Tom countered. "Nobody's ever seen anything like this before."

The elder Paris knew better than to argue with his son, and the two men sat in uneasy silence for several minutes, Tom making notations on a PADD, and Owen watching his son, uncertain. "What happened out there?" Tom finally asked, not looking up from his work.

Owen frowned. "I told you, while we were breaking camp, a snake—"

"No," Tom interrupted, looking up. "I didn't mean that. I meant during the practical. When you commed me a few days ago, you called her B'Elanna. You _never_ call cadets by their first names—even Syd and I were 'Cadet Paris'."

Admiral Paris was stunned for several seconds, not sure what to say. Tom realized that his father hadn't registered that he had called her by her first name until it was just pointed out. "I'm not sure, exactly," he said slowly. "It's a bit of a long story."

Tom snorted slightly and gestured toward the still figure on the biobed in the middle of the room. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

His father frowned at those words, but once again, declined to argue. "You're right," he said, trying to figure out where to begin. "I grew to respect her very much over these last couple of months. She's very passionate about her work, very intelligent, among the most creative cadets I've ever worked with. I grew to enjoy our discussions very much."

Tom raised his eyebrows. He had never thought that he would ever see eye-to-eye with his father, but they had apparently come to the same conclusion about B'Elanna Torres. Still not willing to concede the similarities, however, he rolled eyes his slightly. "Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful relationship," he said sarcastically. It was hardly a fair comment—of all of his complaints about his father, unfaithfulness was nowhere near the list. An illicit affair with a cadet or junior officer—or anybody—would be as far from Owen's character as one could get. Owen gave his son a reproachful glance.

"Hardly, Thomas." He sighed slightly. "I really don't know where to begin."

"Well, you always the said the beginning is usually the best place."

The admiral chuckled and rolled his eyes slightly at his son's mocking tone. "The beginning. Well, the first time we exchanged more than a few words was probably the second day after we landed on the planetoid. We were approximately one and a half kilometers from a large river, and I gave her the assignment of designing a water transportation system from the river to our campsite, so we wouldn't have to take the time every day to go to the river and carry it back. I told her about some of the past solutions to the problem, including diverting a stream and creating an aqueduct system, and she just looked at me as if I were a complete idiot."

"I'm well acquainted with that look," Tom said dryly. "Sorry. Continue."

"While I was still speaking, she picks up a stick and begins drawing figures and equations in the dirt, not even hearing what I had to say anymore. I was starting to get frustrated with her disrespect and was about to call her out on it, but she wouldn't have heard me anyway, she was concentrating that hard on her project. Before I could say anything, she called one of her classmates over and asked him what depth the water table was at the campsite. Somehow, Cadet Richards knew immediately what she was getting at, and the two of them began planning something. I interrupted to point out that this was Cadet Torres' problem, which made Cadet Richards suddenly look pale enough I was worried about him fainting from fright, but she just gave me this look, and said, 'Nothing in Starfleet is ever a one-person job. I could probably come up with a solution to this problem on my own, but instead I chose to ask from help from one of our geology majors to come up with a better solution. Asking for help isn't necessarily a sign of weakness.' Then she smirked at me, and said, 'Your son taught me that one.'"

"And to think, I thought she never listened to me," Tom said, shaking his head slightly.

"I guess you made more of an impression that you realized," Owen said softly. Tom was sure there was more to that story that he was saying at the moment. "Between Torres and Richards, they designed a well that was more than adequate in supplying the water we needed for the camp. In all my years teaching this practical, I've never had any student consider that as a solution before. I had never considered that as a solution."

"She's an amazing engineer," Tom said. "I was able to see that from the beginning."

"She's an amazing _person_," Admiral Paris replied.

Tom studied his father for a second. While he was still far from completely forgiving Owen for his words outside the track and field stadium a year and a half before, he was beginning to see that maybe the admiral was far more human than he had given him credit for. "Yeah," Tom agreed. "She is."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12—2368**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris yawned deeply as he leaned back in the chair he had claimed as his in Cadet B'Elanna Torres' room. The nurses were beginning to grow accustomed to his presence—and his light flirtations, which they rewarded with meals from the cafeteria and snacks brought from home. The physical therapists, after learning about Paris' status as a test pilot and the field medic training that went with it, taught him the exercises they were using on Torres to keep her muscles from weakening too much. The only problem was, they were pretty much the only people who came into the room.

He got up and paced briefly in the small room, trying to wake himself enough to get through more of the navigational analyses he had waiting for him, when a newly-familiar voice distracted his musings. "Hey, Tom," Lt. Michael Sampson, one of the day shift nurses, said, surprising him.

"Oh, hey, Mike," Paris replied. "Assigned to the neuro floor again today?"

"Oh, yeah, fun times," Sampson replied, rolling his eyes. "Any change?"

Paris shook his head. "No, nothing yet. Hey, I have a question for you. Has anyone else been coming in?"

Sampson thought about it for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yeah, other than you and Admiral Paris, there was a cadet, I think she was Betazoid, came in the other evening right around the end of my shift for a bit."

Paris nodded slowly. "Probably Reyana Srani. She was Torres' roommate plebe year, might be still. No family?"

"Not that I've seen," Sampson replied as he checked the vitals scrolling across the monitors.

"Who's listed as her next of kin?"

"Let me check," the nurse said slowly, pulling out a data PADD. He shook his head a moment later. "Doesn't have one listed."

"Of course not," Paris muttered. He mustered up a thin smile. "Thanks, Mike."

"No problem. Let me know if anything changes."

"Will do."

After Sampson left, Paris returned to his chair, thinking. There had to be someone in her family that would care that Torres was lying in the neurology ward at Starfleet Medical. He doubted that she had mended bridges with her mother, and even if she had, depending on where she was living, especially if it was within the Klingon Empire, it would probably take awhile for her to get to Starfleet Medical. He knew she still wasn't talking to her father, but he thought he remembered something about getting in touch with her grandmother.

With a new sense of purpose, he logged onto the wall console in Torres' room and brought up her personnel file. After a few minutes of being distracted by reading through her academic history, he remembered what he was doing, and selected the link under "Father".

To his surprise, John Torres had a full Starfleet personnel file, not the abridged file that dependents or parents often had. Skimming through it quickly, Paris discovered that he was the son of an officer, a Lt. Marcus Torres, who died in the line of duty on the _U.S.S. Budokon_. After Marcus' death, John grew up with his mother and younger brother Carl in Arizona. At eighteen, he entered the University of Arizona, majoring in Industrial Engineering. Shortly after graduation, he married Miral, another industrial engineer from Qo'noS, and the couple moved to the new colony of Kessik IV, where they were employed by the colony governor. Two years later, the couple had a daughter, B'Elanna. As the colony became more established, Torres began freelance consulting for governments and organizations, including Starfleet. Seven years after his move to Kessik IV, an official change of address to Earth and a divorce were noted in his file. Three years later, he married Lt. T'Pana Tulon, a Starfleet counselor, and three years after that, Naviana Torres was born. The permanent address listed was in Ixtapa, Mexico, but he was still doing a fair amount of consulting work throughout the Federation and outside its borders.

After learned all he could about the man B'Elanna had sworn never to talk to again, Paris selected the link on John Torres' file for "Mother". Paris had to chuckle when Isela Torres' file came up; like her son, Isela had a much more comprehensive file than the average civilian or Starfleet dependent, but hers was explained by the highly visible notation of "Reporter", placed on files to warn Starfleet personnel to watch what they say around such people.

Paris glanced at the chronometer and grimaced; apparently he had spent more time on John Torres' file than he realized. Instead of reading about B'Elanna's grandmother, he merely opened a comm line and inserted her transmission coordinates.

The comm was answered within a few seconds, but the face on the other end of the transmission was obviously not Isela Torres. "Hi," Paris said, smiling at the young dark-haired girl on the monitor. "I'm looking for Isela Torres?"

"That's my grandmother," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'll go get her." Without another word, she turned from the monitor's view, calling out something in what sounded like Spanish. The only other time he had heard it spoken was in the company he commanded; both Cadets Maria Ruiz and B'Elanna Torres spoke it. He could never tell what they were saying, but judging from their body language and volume, Ruiz would quietly critique Torres, and Torres would return that with something that sounded angry and always caused Ruiz to back away.

With a start, he realized that the girl who answered the comm could be Torres' half-sister, Naviana. She appeared to be about the right age, and while she was obviously lacking the cranial ridges, she did have some of the same facial features as the cadet.

"Can I help you?" a curious voice interrupted Paris' musings. She looked amused, her brown eyes twinkling.

"Yes, ma'am," Paris replied. "Are you Isela Torres?"

"I am," she confirmed, still amused.

"And do you have a granddaughter named B'Elanna?"

Her smile faltered slightly. "Yes," she said cautiously. "She's a cadet at Starfleet Academy. She was scheduled to get back from her Junior Survival Strategies course a few days ago."

"Yes, ma'am, I know," Paris said. "I'm Lt. Tom Paris, I was B'Elanna's company commander her first year at the Academy." He paused, not quite sure how to proceed. "Ma'am, there was an accident on the last day of her course. B'Elanna's in a coma at Starfleet Medical."

Isela's eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, gods," she breathed. "Is she going to be okay?"

"The doctors are optimistic," Paris replied. "Ma'am—"

"It's Isela," she interrupted, giving him a thin smile. "I know you 'Fleet officers have the 'sir' and 'ma'am' drilled into you, but please, call me Isela." Her smile faded, her mouth set in a resolute line. "We'll be there within the half hour, Lieutenant." She signed off before he had an opportunity to tell her that that was exactly what he was hoping she would say.

---

It was about twenty-five minutes later that Paris was interrupted from the notations he was making on his PADD by a gentle knock on the open door to Torres' room. He looked up to see Isela Torres, and to his surprise, the girl he presumed to be Naviana. He quickly made his way to his feet. "I'm glad you could come," he told her.

She nodded slightly. "Thank you for contacting me." Her head inclined slightly toward the young girl. "This is Navi, B'Elanna's half-sister. She's staying with me for the week, while her father is on Mionauk III and her mother is at a hybrid conference on Betazed."

He smiled at the girl. If anything, she looked even younger than her eight years, but he wasn't exactly the best at guessing kids' ages. Her black hair, thick like her sister's, hung perfectly straight to a point just above her waist; her eyes, large and inky black, were watching him beneath straight eyebrows. Her features were still very childish, but Paris could almost convince himself of similarities she shared with the woman unconscious on the biobed a few meters away. "Nice to meet you, Navi," he said, holding out his hand. "Tom Paris."

"Nice to meet you," she replied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly, oddly formal for a child her age. She studied him for a few long seconds, her eyes narrowing slightly in the same expression of scrutiny he often received from her older sister. "Are you B'Elanna's boyfriend?"

He almost snorted in surprise at the question. "No," he replied, trying not to laugh awkwardly. "I'm a—," _a what?_ a chiding voice interjected. _Former commanding officer? Acquaintance with a strange fascination?_ "Friend," he decided.

Navi frowned at the explanation. "But you really like her," she pressed. "I can tell—"

"That's enough, Naviana," Isela interjected forcefully. "What has your mother taught you about using your telepathy without permission?"

The girl sighed and frowned heavily before turning back to Paris. "I'm sorry, sir," she said it what sounded like a practiced apology.

Isela looked back up at Paris, her face genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. T'Pana is half-Betazoid and half-Vulcan. Navi is just developing telepathic abilities, and sometimes forgets that she isn't supposed to use them all the time."

"That's okay," Paris replied, giving the girl an encouraging smile, even while cringing at the knowledge that his feelings, which he thought he had kept reasonable well-hidden, were so easily picked up by someone with relatively unrefined telepathic abilities. Remembering back to his exobiology courses at the Academy, he had to admit that perhaps that was his fault; Vulcans were traditionally touch-telepaths, and he was the one to offer his hand to shake.

Isela gave him one more slight smile before her face became serious again, her attitude all business. "What is B'Elanna's condition now?"

He gestured toward the head of the bed, where a series of monitors were showing vital signs and images he couldn't begin to completely decipher. "On the last day of her Survival Strategies course, she was bitten by a snake that contained venom toxic to Klingon nerve cells, removing the outer covering from the cells—"

"Myelin," Navi interrupted with a frown. "You don't need to speak down. I know a lot about neurology."

"Well, I don't, Naviana," Isela replied, smiling down at her granddaughter. "Please continue, Lieutenant."

"Tom, please," he replied. "If you would like me to call you Isela, than I insist you call me Tom." He gave her a quick grin. "They managed to get her into stasis for the transport back, but by the time they arrived to San Francisco, only about ten percent of the cells in her brain were coated—myelinated," he said, smiling down at Navi. "These cortical stimulators," he said, pointing at the ones behind Torres' ears, "contain a myelinating compound that Dr. Zalun, the hybrid neurologist, created. According to his morning report, her brain is now approximately fifty percent myelinated. He thinks she'll be capable of thought at around fifty-five or sixty percent, and will start to wake up anywhere around sixty-five to seventy-five percent. Her peripheral nerves are doing even better. Some of the smaller nerve fibers are almost completely myelinated, so she'll be capable of feeling as soon as her brain can comprehend it." He lightly rubbed her shoulder, as if making a point of it.

"Including pain?" Isela asked softly.

Tom shook his head, looking down at Torres again. "Pain fibers aren't myelinated. She never lost those. Dr. Zalun is worried about that. Without other senses to block out pain, he thinks it will be excruciating, and she'll be experiencing that without us even knowing."

Isela's hand flew to her mouth in horror. "Is there anything that can be done for that?" she asked, her voice tortured.

Paris shook his head. "No, unfortunately not. But B'Elanna's tough. She can take it."

"Gods, I hope so," Isela said softly, gently smoothing back her granddaughter's loose curls. A minute later, she glanced up at Paris. "You don't have to stay, if you don't want to. Navi and I can keep her company for awhile."

"It's okay," he assured her. "There's nowhere else I need to be."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13—2368**

* * *

Navi Torres eyed Lt. Tom Paris suspiciously, her black eyes narrowing. "I see your ten, and raise you ten," she finally declared, throwing the colored chips to the middle of the table.

Isela groaned and set her cards down. "Too rich for my blood," she declared. Shaking her head slightly, she turned to Paris. "I can't believe you taught my eight-year-old granddaughter how to play poker."

"It's okay, he's bluffing," Navi declared without thinking. Her cheeks darkened slightly at what she just revealed. "And besides, I learned how to play poker years ago," she added. Paris grinned at her attempts to distract from the fact that she just admitted she was using her empathic abilities.

"You sure I'm bluffing?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow and pretending he hadn't noticed her faux pas. "They always warned me against playing poker with Betazoids, but I'm feeling confident. I see your twenty, and raise you ten."

A cleared throat from the doorway attracted the attention of all three poker players. "Sorry to interrupt," Admiral Owen Paris said after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"No problem," Lt. Paris drawled with a grin. Glancing around and realizing that he was the only one in the room who knew everyone else, he made quick introductions.

"Can I speak to you outside, Tom?" his father asked after nodding his hello.

"Sure," Tom replied, getting up. "No looking at my cards while I'm up," he scolded Navi.

"I don't need to," she replied smugly. "I know you don't have anything good." He chuckled at her confidence as he left the room to meet his father in the corridor.

The elder Paris looked slightly uncomfortable and almost at a loss for words, which had to be a first. "How is she?" he finally asked.

Tom shrugged. "There's still no change, but Dr. Zalun is pretty sure that she'll wake up any day from now."

"What about her recovery after she wakes up?"

"Nobody knows," Tom said honestly. "Dr. Zalun doesn't seem to think it'll affect her memory or intelligence at all." He paused. "He's also pretty sure she won't be running this year. At this point, there's no way of telling if she'll ever be able to compete again."

The admiral sighed heavily. "That'll be hard for her to take. She's probably the only cadet I've ever taken on a Survival Strategies course who insisted on training at least an hour a day."

Lt. Paris nodded. "She loves to compete. It was probably the only thing that kept her from dropping out or getting in enough trouble to get kicked out her first year."

His father frowned at those words, shaking his head. "No, it wasn't track that did that," he said. "It was _you_."

Tom blinked in surprise, then shook his head. "Maybe so, if her entire goal was to stay to make my job that much harder for one more day."

"I told you, you made more of an impression than you realize." Owen studied his son for a moment. "We spent a lot of time talking, after most of the cadets had gone to sleep. She would stay up for a few more hours to work on some calculations for her project in Admiral Yasinski's lab. Apparently, Klingons don't need as much sleep as humans. She told me about some of your methods to get her to work with a team, how you tutored her in Officership 1, even asked for her help on your _bat'leth_ skills." Tom felt a blush creep up his cheeks; he hoped she hadn't told _everything_ about those _bat'leth_ sessions. "She also told me that she hadn't spoken to you since you graduated, until she visited you at Mars Station." He frowned slightly. "Why are you here?"

Tom frowned. He knew where this was going, and it was going to take a lot of self-control to keep from losing his temper at his father. "Somebody should be here for her," he replied, parroting his words from a few days before. "And maybe the question should be, if you knew that we barely spoke, why did you bother contacting me to tell me that she was in the hospital?"

"Her family is here now," Owen said, ignoring the second half of his son's words. "Tom, you need to be thinking about yourself. When was the last time you were at work?"

"I'm going in tomorrow," the younger Paris replied, instantly on the defensive. "And I've been working on things here. You don't need to worry about my career. I have it under control."

"You're taking the morning shuttle?"

"Hmm? Oh, to Mars? No. I'm going into work in San Fran. I requested a transfer when I realized how bad things were here."

Owen frowned. "I thought the position at Utopia Planitia was more prestigious than the one here."

Tom bristled at the words. Just as he expected, his father was telling him what to do. "There are things more important than prestigious postings," he said harshly. "B'Elanna's in for a long road of rehab after she wakes up. She needs me here more than R&D needs me on Mars."

Admiral Paris stared at his son for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Very well, Tom. It's your job, and as you've told me many times, you're more than old enough to make your own decisions." He paused slightly as he glanced inside the room at the comatose cadet and the few members of her family she was comfortable with. "I'm heading back to the office. I guess I'll stop by tomorrow. Will you let me know if she wakes up before then?"

Tom just stood there and blinked, unable to even form words. "Wait a second," he finally managed, a slow smirk appearing on his face, his arms crossed over his chest. "Why aren't you arguing with me? You're not going to insist that I comm Captain Hitchcock and ask for my posting at UP back?"

Owen slowly turned back to Tom. "I guess I'm just tired of this fight. Have a good night, son."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14—2372**

* * *

When Lt. Paris stopped talking, Captain Janeway glanced up to find him leaning over his console with a frown on his face. "We're in for a bit of turbulence in a couple of minutes, Captain. There are some ion storms coming through this area."

"I see it," Janeway said, activating her own console. "I'm adjusting the polarity of the shields, which should take care of the most of it."

Paris nodded as he made the necessary course corrections. "I'm hoping we'll be able to stay at warp, but I'm dropping to impulse if it gets too bumpy. These shuttles can't handle too much abuse from ion turbulence." He turned to her and gave a quirky grin. "Believe me on that one. I've nearly wrecked a number of these things testing that theory."

Janeway found herself smiling back. "You really enjoyed being a test pilot, didn't you?"

He nodded. "Even my dad eventually had to admit that it was a good career choice for me—something about channeling my reckless behavior in a less-destructive environment." His smile faded slightly. "I broke my arm on a test flight right after I got married—my first day back after my honeymoon, actually. B'Elanna was so mad, I thought she would kill me herself. After that, every day when I left for work, she'd say the exact same thing to me: 'I'm only getting married once, Flyboy. Don't you dare die on me.' I would tell her I wasn't planning on it, and she'd say that was good, because if I did, she'd have to go down to the gates of Gre'thor herself and kill me again for leaving her."

"Gre'thor?" Janeway asked, eyebrows raised.

"Klingon hell," Paris explained with a grin. "She also said that there's no way a _pataQ_ like me could get into Sto-vo-kor."

Captain Janeway found herself smiling, thinking that a conversation with B'Elanna Torres would be anything but boring. Her smile faded slightly as she thought about something else Paris had said. "How long did this…antagonism with your father last?"

Confident that their brief bout with ion turbulence was over, Paris reclined in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he considered this. "He's always been strict with me, but he was strict with all three of us. He always demanded the best, and I worked hard to give it. Doing what Dad wanted came easy for Sydney, and I think Nicki went out of her way to do the _opposite_ of what he wanted—I'm still surprised she wasn't disowned when he realized she was serious about not going into Starfleet. As far as antagonism, it probably started when I was about seventeen. The combination of typical teenage angst toward authority figures and his expectations of me compounded on each other until I could barely stand to be in the same room as him. He pushed me, and I pushed back. After what he said when I got my posting as a test pilot, we didn't even speak to each other for almost a year, until Nicki forced us to. I still don't know everything that Dad and B'Elanna talked about during Survival Strategies, but I think we started to understand each other after that, so I'm assuming she said something that started to change his mind about me and my goals, what I wanted out of my career and my life. We get along pretty well most of the time now."

Janeway nodded slightly, a remembering smile on her lips. "When I served with your father on the _Al-Batani_, he would always tell stories of his children. I remember one in particular, something about taking an eight-year-old out in an S-class shuttle."

Paris laughed at the memory. "First time I flew shuttle, not just a simulator. No warp drive, manual helm controls. It took me awhile to figure out how to keep it level, but once I got it down, things just started to make sense." He smiled sadly. "I always assumed I'd do the same with my kids someday."

"You might still get the chance," Janeway replied softly. A few moments of silence fell over them before she cleared her throat. "Getting back to your story, how long was B'Elanna in the hospital?"

"She actually woke up close to midnight the next night. I was working on calculations for a navigation array in her room, ended up falling asleep in a chair by her bed. I woke up to someone poking me. She said I was drooling on her bed, which I deny to this day. Her words were a bit slurred, and she couldn't hold her arm up very long. Despite the physical therapy and the muscle stimulators, she was still very weak. It took a few more days before she could even walk across the room. She was getting hours of physical therapy a day at the hospital, wouldn't allow anyone to be in her room when she got back because she was in so much pain. She missed the first three days of classes before she was discharged from the hospital, but I doubt that hurt her grades any. I think they finally decided she was ready to get back to the Academy when they started to realize that if she got her hands on the proper equipment, she could make do on her threats of bodily harm."

"She completely missed that engineering course at UP then, didn't she?"

He nodded. "Yeah, which is too bad. She was understating the course when she just referred to it as 'officer-level'. Commander La Forge of the _Enterprise_ was the instructor and most of the students were chief engineers of small starships, mostly cruisers and science vessels. Admiral Yasinski thought it would be a good experience for her, and apparently whoever was in charge of organizing the course agreed." He shrugged. "I doubt missing the course hurt her career at all, but it was just one more thing for her to add on her list of missed opportunities. Overall, her second classman year was not a pleasant one."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15—2369**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris was trying his hardest to appear calm even as his hand clenched the cushion of the co-pilot's seat hard enough that he was sure either the seat or his hand was about to break. "Okay, Cadet, you're going to want to back off on the forward thrusters while keeping the shuttle level, and be prepared to fire the reverse thrusters—no, not yet!" he exclaimed as he was pitched forward, the rear of the shuttle suddenly elevated.

"Sorry, sir!" the nervous cadet exclaimed as the two cadets in the rear did their best to stifle their chuckles.

Shooting them a look, Paris turned his attention back to the cadet at the helm. "It's okay, we're still in the air. Let's give it another try. What do you want to look for before firing the reverse thrusters?"

The already flustered cadet blushed darkly as he shook his head. "I don't remember, sir."

Paris nodded slightly. "Anyone else?" he asked the two in the back.

"Gravimetric forces and downward acceleration," one of the cadets replied automatically, a tall blond with an expression of disdain and an attitude to match, whose name always escaped Paris.

"That's right, Cadet," he acknowledged, nodding slighting. Turning back to the pilot, he said, "Okay, let's do this again. Begin to bring us down, and keep an eye on your gravimetric forces and accelerometer." Biting his lip in concentration, the cadet nodded tersely and began the descent. The landing was far from smooth, but they made it down in one piece.

"Okay, that's it for today," Paris said, standing and waving for the cadets to file out of the small class-2 shuttle. "We're going to be going over take-offs and landings again on Thursday, so I want you to re-read those chapters. If you have any questions about any of the reading material or procedures, feel free to contact me; you have my transmission coordinates. Dismissed." The three cadets straightened to attention before turning to head back to the main campus area.

"You coming, Ben?" the other male cadet called out to the one who had last been at the helm.

"Go ahead, I'll catch you guys at dinner," he called back. Once they moved out of earshot, he turned to the test pilot teaching their practical. "Lieutenant, may I talk to you for a few minutes?"

"Sure," Paris replied. "Do you mind if we walk and talk at the same time?"

The cadet nodded as they headed toward the main campus. "Sir, I don't feel like I'm progressing at all," he began. "I can't even manage to land a class-2 shuttle. The other students are starting to call me 'dunce cap'."

"It's not that bad—," Paris began.

"It _is_ that bad!" he interrupted. "I'm close to having to remediate this course. I tried asking Lissette for help, but she said that it's hopeless and that if I can't even control an idiot-proof class-2, there's no way I'll be able to get my shuttle flight proficiency."

"First of all, not getting your shuttle proficiency isn't the end of the universe," Lt. Paris said. "Most officers aren't certified to pilot shuttles. Second, I know your grades, and I know you still have some room before you have to be thinking about remediation. Finally, we're only four weeks into the course, and we've only been in shuttles for two of those. It just takes some people a little bit longer than others to get the hang of flying a shuttle."

"How long did it take _you_, sir?"

Paris chuckled uncomfortably. "I'm not the best example, Cadet. I've been flying shuttles since I was kid."

The cadet threw his hands into the air. "Great! _Kids_ can fly better than I can."

Paris couldn't help but grin at this. "If your father had started taking you to flight simulators when you were three years old, you'd be pretty good at this, too. They didn't ask me to teach this course because I'm a 'passable' pilot, Cadet." He frowned, thinking. "How about this? The course is on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have a rather extensive library of simulator programs that I'll give you access to, and on Mondays and Wednesdays, I'll run some programs with you and give you some pointers. If I can get permission, we can check out a shuttle and practice without your classmates around. How does that sound?"

"You'd be willing to do that, sir? Give up your free time?"

"Sure," Paris said with a shrug. "Not as if I'm doing anything else with it, anyway. Do you want to start tomorrow, or wait until next week?"

"Tomorrow would be nice, if you have the time."

Paris nodded. "I usually sign out of the test flight facility around 1700, but I sometimes work later. How about 1900? We'll plan on an hour for the first lesson, if we need to lengthen it, we can discuss it later." He glanced over at the cadet, found him nodding in agreement. After a few more steps of walking in silence, he asked conversationally, "What are you majoring in?"

"Exobiology," the cadet replied. "After Junior Survival Strategies, I'm thinking about going to medical school after graduation."

"Sounds like it was an inspiring course."

"Oh, yes, sir. You probably heard about it from your fa—Admiral Paris, but on the last day of the course, one of the cadets, who is half-Klingon, was bitten by a snake. Our tricorders were set to human standards, so we didn't know that the venom was toxic to Klingons. I took Klingon Physiology last spring, so I thought to set the tricorder to Klingon standards and discovered the mechanism of injury, and we were able to get her into stasis in time." He shrugged. "I just happened to remember the right thing at the right time. I'm working on a research project with a biomedical engineering major now, seeing if we can reconfigure tricorders to display standards for multiple species."

"That was _you?_" Paris asked incredulously. "That wasn't just 'remembering the right thing at the right time.' You saved her life."

The cadet flushed with the attention, shrugging again. "It wasn't anything anyone with my background couldn't have done."

Paris chuckled. "And flying a shuttle isn't anything that anyone with _my_ background can't do. We all have our different talents, Cadet. You don't have to be ashamed that flying a shuttle and making it look easy isn't one of them." They had arrived back at the main academic center. "Tomorrow night, Cadet?"

"Yes, sir. I'll meet you at the flight simulation center. And, thanks for talking with me, sir."

Paris nodded and watched the tall dark-haired cadet head in the direction of the dorms before he turned in the direction of the athletic facilities and physical training center. Torres' rehab was progressing steadily, enough so that she was up to running through some of her combatives training programs, although at a pretty low level compared to what she was capable of before her hospitalization. On the afternoons Paris taught his shuttle certification course, he usually joined her afterwards, enjoying the physical activity, and as he was just beginning to admit to himself, the company—on the rare occasions when she wasn't so moody that she could barely bring herself to speak to him.

Hoping that today would be a good day, he checked the display for the training suites, finding one of Torres' programs running in the rear suite, a Klingon _bat'leth_ program from the looks of it. Smiling ironically at the memories that brought, Paris made his way down the corridor to the furthest holosuite. The door was locked, as it always was, but Torres had given him the access codes.

As the doors slid open, Paris found himself in the environment seemingly universal for Klingon training programs—a dark cave, dim light provided by torches on the walls and fire pots on the floor. His eyes, however, quickly focused on the figure of a slight half-Klingon cadet in leather armor kneeling on the floor with her arms on a low bench, a look of panic on her face, her breaths coming in the slow and rhythmic pattern from the respiratory stimulator she still wore over her diaphragm in case of emergencies, when she couldn't get her muscles to work hard enough to allow her to get in enough air on her own.

"Torres!" he exclaimed, rushing over to her side. She fixed him with a look of disgust before turning away, but didn't respond, the stimulator preventing her from speaking. "We've got to get you to the hospital!" he exclaimed, kneeling to help her up.

She shook her head frantically, her hand finding the respiratory stimulator on her side. As soon as she pressed it, her breaths became quick and ragged, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain. "Go… away," she hissed, her eyes still closed.

Paris blinked in surprise. "B'Elanna," he said gently, "we have to get you to Starfleet Medical, have Dr. Zalun check you over. If there's something wrong—"

"Nothing…wrong," she managed, her breaths still ragged but her eyes now open and angry. "Just…over did… it. Leave… me alone."

"I'm not going anywhere," he declared. "Not until you're breathing and able to walk out of here on your own. You need to get to the hospital."

She shook her head again. "He'll want me… to stay overnight. For observation. I have an experiment running…don't want to mess it up."

He snorted. "Breathing is more important than an experiment, Torres."

She glared at him again. "I'm fine," she insisted. She shifted, moving from a kneel to her seat, groaning at the pain in her muscles. "I'll be fine."

He had to admit, she _was_ breathing easier, but he didn't feel any better about it. "What happened?" he asked gently.

She shrugged a shoulder, avoiding his gaze. "Like I said," she began, her voice annoyed, "I just over did it. I wanted to try the next level of the program."

"B'Elanna," he said, his voice still gentle. "You have nothing to prove. Less than six weeks ago, you were still in a coma."

Her eyes finally met his, but the angry glare behind hers made him wonder if that was a good thing. "I'm _tired_ of people reminding me of that!" she exclaimed, her words forceful despite the breathlessness behind them. "I'm tired of _this_!" she added, gesturing around the program. "I can't do _anything_. I ran through this program when I was twelve. Now, I can't get past the third level. I have to sit down while setting up my experiments in the lab, because I don't have the strength to stand for the two hours it takes to set one up. Last year, I set the Starfleet record in the decathlon and placed eleventh at the Earth championships, and now my legs stop working after jogging a lap around the track." She laughed bitterly, slightly maniacally. "Coach wants me to _manage_ the team this year. He says it's to keep me familiar with the team, with the routine, so I'm not behind when I come back next year." She snorted. "Come back. What are the odds of me being able to compete at this level in a year, or ever? One in a hundred thousand? A million? I joined the track team at my secondary school in ninth grade, and it took six years of training to get where I was last year. Now, I'm starting over from scratch. How am I supposed to manage that?" She looked away, her jaw clenched angrily. "I can't _do_ this anymore."

"Yes, you can," Paris said forcefully. "It may take some time, but—"

"But what?" Torres interrupted. "But _eventually_ I'll have the stamina to be able to work a full shift as an engineer? Maybe I'll even _eventually_ be up for running a kilometer or two. You just don't _get it_, Paris. This is who I am—I was. I didn't _have_ to stop. I stayed in Yasinski's lab, running experiments until my morning class the next day. I ran faster and threw further than anybody else, because when everyone else was practicing for three hours a day, I was putting in five or six. Every single day during the Survival Strategies course, I woke up early, went running, did the coursework and class practicals, and stayed up after everyone else had gone to sleep to run theoretical scenarios on a tricorder that I modified to do so, while talking to an admiral about careers, dilithium extraction, the extent of the universe, his son, warp engine improvements, starship design, and everything else imaginable. But this, _this_, I can't do this. I can't be weak. I don't know how to do this."

"You're not weak," Paris protested, reaching out to her. She ducked away from his hand, and he lowered it slowly. "You're the strongest person I know, and I'm not just saying that because you have, on multiple occasions, knocked me on my ass without even trying. You don't take anything from anybody—hell, you were talking back to your company commander on your first day of orientation!" He gave her an encouraging smile, but she only rolled her eyes angrily in response as she jumped up to her feet, immediately having to stabilize herself against the wall.

"You're missing the point, Paris!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "That's not who I am anymore. I don't know _who_ I am anymore!" She turned away in frustration.

"You have to stop this, Torres," Paris said harshly. Torres' head shot up in surprise; he hadn't used that tone with her since she was a plebe. "How do you expect yourself to get any better if you just give up?"

She studied him for a long moment before shaking her head slowly. "Why are you doing this, Tom?" she asked quietly.

"Because I care about what happens to you," he replied. "I care about _you_. Hell, B'Elanna, I think I'm falling in love with you. I have been since the first time you looked at me like I'm an idiot, which was about thirty seconds after the first time you looked at me at all."

He froze, realizing what he had just said, and realizing at the same time that he meant it. She, similarly, seemed rooted to the floor, her eyes wide in surprise. For a long moment, neither of them said anything; he doubted either of them had so much as taken a breath. Finally, he turned and left the training suite without another word.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16—2369**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris was making his way across the campus of Starfleet Academy, hoping to get in a few hours on the Velocity court after running through shuttle flight drills with the cadets in his flight certification course. His phaser proficiency exam was coming up, and he always considered Velocity to be a better way—and more entertaining way—of preparing than just shooting at targets in the phaser range.

"Lt. Paris," a voice called out to him. He stopped in surprise, turning towards its source and seeing a tall and thin woman approaching, her straight black hair loose over her shoulders, cadet uniform abandoned in favor of a dark green skirt and simple white blouse, an overnight duffel slung over her shoulder, her black eyes shining.

"Cadet Srani," he drawled in response. "You're out of uniform."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a grin before rolling her eyes. "My mother is having some sort of 'family emergency' and all but demanded that I go to Australia to be with her in my sister's absence. She even went so far as to contact Admiral Brand to request my leave for a few days."

He gave a low whistle. "And people say _my_ family is influential."

"Your father is an admiral. My mother is the daughter of the Third House of Betazed and Betazed's representative to the Federation. There is a slight power differential there."

"And yet I outrank you."

She raised an eyebrow, a half-smile on her lips. "As your French would say, _touché_." She hitched the duffel up on her shoulder, her expression becoming serious. "Have you talked to B'Elanna lately?"

He shook his head. "It's been five or six weeks. Why? Has something happened?"

She shrugged, a human motion she must have picked up on in her few years on Earth. "She has been moody lately, not to the same extent she was a couple of months ago, but it is still enough that she is becoming a distraction. I have spent some time in counseling sessions with Betazoid therapists in efforts to block the stronger emotions, but that does not address the more serious issue of the source of these…moods. I worry that she will leave or be asked to leave the Academy if this does not improve."

A frustrated sigh escaped from Paris' lips. "What do you expect me to do, Srani? Even if she would talk to me, which I doubt, I'm not a counselor—and isn't she already seeing a counselor?"

"She is seeing a hybrid-certified psychiatrist, yes," the Betazoid confirmed. "But I think you talking to her would help. She has always listened to you and respected you."

Paris snorted. "Strange. I could have sworn you were in the same company that I commanded."

Srani grinned, remembering. "Just go talk to her. She always heads back to the room after her Wednesday class, which should be getting out in about ten minutes. You can go up there and wait for her. It's Sato Hall, room six-thirteen. My code is 152-473-4756. Anyway, I have to go before my mother sends the family shuttle after me."

"I can't just wait in your room," Paris protested. "I'm an instructor here now. How do you think it would look if a male officer broke into the room of two female cadets?"

She shrugged again. "You are not in uniform. Just do not get caught. And if you excuse me, I have to go. It is time for me to listen to my mother rant about how upset she is that my sister could not be there and how she will have to make do with me. Take care, and good luck." She flashed him another grin before calmly striding toward the transporter station.

---

When Cadet Second Class B'Elanna Torres entered her Academy dorm room on the sixth floor of Sato Hall, she immediately turned to put her toolkit away in her closet, not even glancing into the room. "Reyana, I'm going to go for a run," she said absently as she pulled her running shoes out of her closet.

"I'll join you," Lt. Tom Paris replied calmly. He watched as she immediately tensed and straightened at the unexpected voice, spinning toward her desk against the far wall, where sure enough, she saw the tall, fair lieutenant in workout clothes sitting.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "And where's Reyana?"

"She got called away to the Betazed embassy. She'll probably be gone two or three days," he replied.

She stared, incredulous. "You had her sent all the way to Australia to make sure she wouldn't be here?"

"Yeah, I did," he replied sarcastically. "I have that kind of influence. I ran into her in the courtyard, she told me then. So, what about this run? Maybe now I'll actually be able to keep up."

To his pleasure, she actually smiled at that, albeit sarcastically. "In your dreams, Paris," she snorted. "Fine, you can join me. Just don't expect me to be much of a conversationalist."

"Oh, I would never accuse you of such things," he replied, matching her sarcasm as he rose from her chair. "Hurry up and change. I'll wait in the corridor."

"Yes, sir," she snidely shot back, her cheeks flushed in anger. He flashed her another quick grin as he exited the room.

Two minutes later, the door to her room again swung open. "Let's go," she said brusquely. He immediately turned toward the turbolift, but she stopped him. "Oh, no, Lieutenant. I take the stairs." Her chin jutted toward the opposite end of the corridor.

"Good thing you don't live on the twelfth floor," he replied dryly, following her to the stairs. They ran down the five flights to the first floor in a silent race, which Paris barely won, thanks to one long bound from halfway up the last flight. His ankle didn't exactly appreciate the landing, but he'd never admit that to the half-Klingon cadet.

They jogged easily away from the residential buildings, and to his surprise, in the opposite direction of the athletic facilities. "Where are we going? I thought we were going to the track?"

She shook her head. "I have a route that I run. Why? You don't think you can handle it?"

He chuckled. "I can handle whatever you can dish out, Torres." She merely cocked an eyebrow at this, and they lapsed into silence as they continued their jog. Although he could tell that she was doing much better than she had been last time he saw her, he knew she was nowhere near the level of the collegiate track and field star she was the year before. "How is managing the team?"

"I'm not doing that," she replied softly. "It was just too…strange, to be around my teammates and not training with them. It made everyone awkward—well, even more awkward than they usually are around me. Besides, Reyana is the manager. I couldn't just take her job away from her."

"That's very considerate of you."

"I thought so." Paris did the math in his head—March was halfway over, which meant it was almost time for the Starfleet Invite. He could understand why being around her former teammates as they prepared for the meet that had provided her moment of glory only a year before would be hard on her. "I'm the lab assistant for a second-year engineering course instead," she continued with a shrug. "It's pretty easy work, just setting up experiments and helping the students when they need it."

"And you're still working in Yasinski's lab?"

She nodded. "I'm almost ready for another publication. It's keeping me busy."

"Sounds like it."

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was Torres who broke it. "Reyana told you to talk to me, didn't she? When you ran into her in the courtyard?"

He nodded. "She said you've been moody, and if anybody knows moods, it's Betazoids."

She snorted, but nodded in agreement. "I've never been the easiest roommate, but I'm starting to think that I'm driving her insane, as if she didn't have enough to worry about with her course load this semester." She looked over at him to see if he knew what she was talking about, but his expression was blank. "She's double majoring in exobiology and microbiology, so she's taking extra credits and starting to look into graduate programs for exovirology. As if that weren't enough, her older sister, the heir to the Third House and most likely the future Betazed representative to the Federation, is threatening to leave grad school before finishing her doctorate in interplanetary relations or whatever it is she's studying, and Representative Srani has been taking it out on Reyana. So the _last_ thing she needs is a 'moody' roommate distracting her, too."

"She said she's worried you won't last the year."

Torres was silent for a moment as she considered this. "It took me almost my entire plebe to figure out who I was on this campus," she finally said. "And then I spent my entire second year being that person—the athlete, the engineer, the slightly anti-social half-Klingon who prefers the company of lab equipment and bad romance novels to other living creatures. I guess now, I'm still trying to figure out where I fit again, and Reyana gets the brunt of my frustrations in that department. I have been a little bit more…tense, than I was a year ago, but I haven't completely reverted to who I was my plebe year. I haven't broken anybody's bones, and I try not to argue too much with my professors. If anyone has any plans to request my resignation from the Academy, they haven't let me in on them, and as for leaving on my own, well, I have considered it, but I don't think that will get me very far, either. I've put up with Starfleet's rules and regulations for this far, I might as well stick it out for as long as I can."

He couldn't help but grin, despite the solemn note to her words. "That's the spirit," he drawled. "Better the devil you know than the one you don't."

"You're a fine one to talk, Paris," she returned dryly.

"_Touché_," he replied with a chuckle. "I'm glad you're deciding to stick around."

She stiffened slightly at his words, remembering why she hadn't spoken to him in almost a month and a half. "What you said, the last time we spoke, you didn't mean that, did you?"

He recognized her words for what they are—not only was she giving him an out, she wanted him to take it. "About falling in love with you?" he said quietly. "Yeah, I meant it. I still do."

She was silent as she thought about that, her head shaking slowly. "No," she finally replied. "You're confusing pity or protectiveness or something for something else."

It was his turn to shake his head. "These feelings have been around for a lot longer than you've been sick. That day in the training suite with the _bat'leths_, it killed me not to kiss you."

"Then why didn't you?" she challenged.

"Ever hear of fraternization?" he asked dryly. "In case you haven't, it's something the Starfleet brass has a _big_problem with. When I said that you would be expelled, I wasn't exaggerating, I've seen it happen. One of the plebes in my sister's company had to leave because he slept with his company commander, who I now believe is still a lieutenant jg on a ship patrolling the Federation-Romulan DMZ."

"What about now?" she asked. "You're an officer, an instructor at the Academy, and I'm still a cadet. Isn't that fraternization?"

"Well, yes," he admitted. "But as long as I'm not _your_ instructor, nobody seems to care as much. Worse case scenario would be that I would get a slap on the wrist."

"And what about me?"

"They wouldn't do anything to you. I'm the officer, the one who is supposed to know better. You would just be the cadet who fell under the influence of the dashing older pilot." He shot her a wide grin, which she missed, her eyes on the trail in front of them.

"The defense of 'I didn't know any better'?" she finally asked, then rolled her eyes in disbelief. "That's highly unlikely." She lapsed into silence again. "I don't want a boyfriend right now, Tom, and even if I did, I doubt it would be you."

Although her words stung, Paris did his best to nod his understanding. "I know," he said, keeping his voice even. "So let me be your friend."

Her head swung quickly to face him. "I thought you _were_ my friend," she said in surprise. "You visited me in the hospital and took my sister out for ice cream. That's what friends do."

"I know," he replied quickly. "You're _my_ friend, but I don't think I'm _your_friend. I want you to feel like you can talk to me and joke with me. You said you don't want to burden Srani with your problems; burden me instead, I can handle it."

"Okay," she finally agreed. "But I'm not exactly good about opening up to people, even my friends."

He snorted. "And I'm the poster child for it," he said sarcastically, which actually got a genuine smile out of her.

"If I'm going to be telling you all of my problems and frustrations, you should do the same. You can tell me about work and how things are with your father and anything else that's bothering you."

"That's not going to be easy," he warned.

"For either of us," she agreed. They turned, the residential buildings coming into view. "It'll be a learning experience." They slowed to a walk, stopping in front of Sato Hall. "Thanks for the run. I go almost every afternoon about the same time. You can join me, Flyboy, if you think you can handle it."

He smiled down at her, recognizing the nickname and the teasing way she said it. It had been nearly two years since he had heard either. "Like I said already, Torres, I can handle anything you can dish out."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17—2372**

* * *

Despite her interest in the story, Captain Janeway found herself yawning deeply, the days of negotiations and festivities with the Zyrians and hours trapped in a shuttle catching up to her. Glancing at her chronometer, she estimated they still had almost two and a half days until their rendezvous with _Voyager_; the sixty hour trip, which included the ten traversing the asteroid field, would be closer to eighty on the return, as they were scheduled to meet at an uninhabited planet further on their journey that their scans had suggested would provide both food and minerals for the ship.

"Maybe you should take the first shift sleeping this time, Captain," Lt. Paris offered generously.

"I think I will, in a little bit," she admitted. She had noticed his voice getting almost sad near his last stopping point, and the expression on his face now was pure melancholy. "Are you alright?" she asked softly.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he said dismissively. "I think about that day sometimes, that run and that talk. When Durst and I were in that Vidiian work camp, I couldn't sleep, just laid awake thinking. For half a second there, I found myself wishing that I had crossed through the courtyard five minutes earlier or later, that I hadn't seen Srani. If I hadn't talked to her, I wouldn't have gone up to B'Elanna's room, wouldn't have gone on that run and had that talk. We probably wouldn't have ended up dating, wouldn't have gotten married. Maybe she would have found someone else, been living happily ever after and not thinking that her husband died in some plasma storm near the Cardassian border."

"You don't mean that," Janeway said softly.

"No, I don't," Paris agreed. "I wish we could be together, I wish she didn't have to think that I died, but I wouldn't trade our time together for anything, wouldn't give up those fourteen months we were married and living together."

"You'll have more time together," Janeway promised.

Paris smiled thinly, knowing better than to dispute her claims of finding a short-cut home. "I know," he said instead. "Would you like me to set the alarm for you?"

"I can set it myself, thank you," she replied, arching an eyebrow. "One last question, though. Whatever happened to Cadet Srani?"

Paris grinned and shrugged. "The standard: graduation, marriage, off to graduate school to study exovirology on Alpha Centauri. Don't worry, Captain, I'll get into all of that. Have a good night."

She knew a dismissal when she heard one, and knowing that the young lieutenant held all of the cards, had to admit defeat. "Very well, Lieutenant. I'll see you in a few hours."

---

Based on the schedule they had set, Lt. Paris was a good five minutes late for duty. Although there was hardly anything of note outside the shuttle that required the attention of _Voyager_'s chief conn officer, Captain Janeway wasn't fond of tardiness. Besides, she was getting impatient for the rest of his story.

With a wicked grin, she remembered the way her father used to wake her and her sister when they were running late for school. Putting on an almost innocent expression, she casually pressed the red alarm command on her console.

Less than five seconds later, Paris emerged from the rear compartment in a rush, his eyes still blurry from sleep, hair sticking up in every direction, wearing the blue shorts and gray shirt he must have slept in. He blinked in surprise to see his captain calmly sitting in the copilot's seat, sipping a mug of coffee. Slowly, a sheepish grin of comprehension crossed his face. "I take it your father used the 'red alert' alarm clock, too."

"You're late, Lieutenant," Janeway replied.

He gave her his best disarming grin. "Do you want me to take my station, or should I shower and get dressed first?"

"You have ten minutes, Mr. Paris. A second longer, and the red alert comes back on."

"Yes, ma'am."

It was almost exactly nine minutes later when Paris again emerged from the rear compartment, this time in uniform, newly shaved, his hair neatly combed. "Shuttle replicators aren't rationed, right?" he asked.

"No," the captain answered slowly.

"Great," he replied. "Raktajino, hot, extra cream," he ordered. He grinned as he took the first sip. "Nothing quite like Klingon coffee." He chuckled. "I couldn't understand how B'Elanna can drink so much of this stuff. I still can't—she measures what kind of day she has by how many cups of raktajino it takes for her to make it through it. A good day is three or four. I think her personal record for one day twelve or fifteen, during her first week on the job at UP. I can't come close to that, but I do appreciate the occasional cup every now and then. I briefly went through a phase where I couldn't start the day without it—I joked that I like my coffee the same way I like my women—hot and Klingon. B'Elanna replied that I put so much cream in my raktajino it only counts as half Klingon. I told her that works for me, too."

Janeway rolled her eyes slightly. "With lines like that, it amazes me that you were able to get her to _talk_ to you, much less marry you."

He laughed. "I saved the really good ones until we were already married and she was stuck with me. While we dating, I was merely charming."

The captain snorted in disbelief. "I'm sure you were, Lieutenant." She paused for a moment, taking a sip of her newly refreshed cup of coffee—she would have to remember to thank Paris for reminding her of the free use of the shuttle replicators at some point. "So, is that when you started dating? After that run?"

Paris thought about it for a moment. "I don't think we ever did anything the traditional way. I don't know if there's a point you can say is when we started dating—at least, we never celebrated any sort of anniversary of when we started dating. After that run, though, we did go running together almost every day, and true to our word, we managed to force ourselves to talk about things that were bothering us. She used me as a pressure valve, so to speak, so she wouldn't blow up at her professors or classmates. I talked to her about work, what it was like being an instructor at the Academy so soon after I graduated, how things were going with my father. Eventually, our runs got longer, and our talks longer still, spilling over into lunches and dinners and hiking trips into the Sierra Nevadas, so I guess you could say we were dating at that point. I'm still not sure when her feelings about a relationship with me began to change."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18—2369**

* * *

"To the end of another year," Lt. Tom Paris declared, holding his flute of champagne in the air for a toast.

"Here, here," Cadet First Class B'Elanna Torres replied dryly before taking a sip. "What are you celebrating for, anyway? You graduated from the Academy two years ago."

"As you are so fond of reminding me, Cadet, I'm an instructor now, so graduation marks the end of my semester taking cadets out for the shuttle flight certification courses."

"Ah, yes," Torres replied with a smirk, "the difficult life of a Starfleet test pilot."

"Don't mock your superiors," Paris warned. "You might not like the consequences."

"Oh?" Torres replied, her expression innocent but her voice as seductive as hell. Paris had to choke back his surprise; other than not complaining about his ceaseless flirting, Torres had given little indication that she thought of it as anything other than a nuisance.

"So," he said, frantically searching for a way to change the subject, "all of your finals went okay?"

"I passed, if that's what you mean," Torres replied with a shrug. A slight smirk crossed her face. "Guess Reyana was worried over nothing. Nobody wanted to kick me out this year."

"Always a good sign," Paris joked. He took another sip of his champagne. "What is Srani up to tonight, anyway?"

Torres raised her eyebrows at him. "Trying to determine if my roommate is going to be around tonight?" she asked in a teasing voice.

_Gods_, Paris thought, hoping his mouth wasn't hanging open. _Is she honestly _flirting_ with me?_ "Right, Torres," he replied with a smirk of his own. "If finding a private place to get you into bed was my primary objective for the night, I would think my own apartment would be better suited than your dorm room."

She grinned briefly at the comment and quickly moved on. "She was on a transporter pad headed toward Australia practically as soon as she submitted her last final."

"Family troubles again?"

Torres nodded, then shook her head. "Yes and no. Yes, her sister is still proving to be a source of frustration for the family, but no, that's not why she had to report to the embassy. She's leaving for Betazed in the morning to spend the summer with her fiancée."

Paris almost spit his champagne out in surprise. "She's _engaged?_ When did this happen?"

"I think she said she was three," Torres replied. "Betazoids are bonded as children, at least, the children of high-ranking Betazoids are bonded, I don't know if it's a universal thing or not. According to Reyana, it's traditional to not even meet again until the wedding day, but her mother thought it best for them to spend some time together before the wedding because of her future position as a Starfleet officer and her time spent around humans. Something about making sure she still wanted that traditional aspect of her Betazoid culture."

"Does she?"

Torres shrugged. "I think so. At least, she wasn't horribly upset about making wedding plans with this guy she hasn't seen since she was a kid."

"So I take it this mystery fiancée is as high ranking as Srani?"

"Not as high ranking, but he's up there," Torres replied. "I think Reyana said he's from the Fifth House, some sort of distant cousin of Counselor Troi from the _Enterprise_."

"Well," Paris said, swirling his champagne flute absently before lifting it. "To Srani and her future husband, whoever he is."

"To Reyana," Torres echoed the toast. They continued to talk throughout the meal, raising their glasses in occasional toasts as they thought of them. Both Paris and Torres were in good spirits, if not a bit giddy as they talked and laughed and flirted more than just a little. "This restaurant is really good, Tom," Torres said as they shared a slice of cheesecake for dessert. "You've really been coming here since you were nine?"

He nodded as he swallowed a bite of the rich cake. "Every year on the last day of school since my sister Sydney's high school graduation. Company's better tonight, though."

She rolled her eyes at this. "Idiot," she murmured behind a smile. "I can just imagine you at nine," she said, squinting a little as she studied him. "Blond hair sticking in every direction, batting those blue eyes to get whatever you wanted. I bet you were a trouble-maker."

"I was precocious," Paris corrected with a grin. "What about you? What were you like when you were nine?"

She frowned as she considered this. "I _was_ a trouble-maker," she finally said. "I took apart the replicator at home just to see if I could put it back together."

He laughed. "I bet you were as cute as hell."

She blushed slightly, and Paris had to fight not to watch the color spread all the way down to the cut of her dress. "Imagine Navi with ridges and curly hair. That's pretty much what I looked like. Although I think I scowled more."

"Well, then I was right," he declared with a grin. "Navi is a pretty cute kid. The ridges and curly hair would only make her cuter." He watched the blush darken. "Was your hair that long, too?" He had never seen her hair longer than a few centimeters past her shoulders.

She nodded. "Longer, actually. I went through a phase where it was past my waist." She grimaced. "And I hated braided it. It was a tangled mess more often than not."

He laughed again. "Well, I've already told you what my hair looked like the first day of summer. Trust me, a tangled mess couldn't have been any worse than being completely shorn."

She grinned back at him. "I have got to see holos of these 'summer hair cuts.'"

"There aren't any," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "I deleted all of them."

"Liar." He just grinned back, enjoying the warmth of the champagne, the company, the good mood. "So what are your plans for tomorrow?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Not much," he admitted. "I'm taking your sister out for a 'date' in the afternoon."

"Oh, really?" she asked, her eyebrows arched.

"She wanted to go out on a shuttle," he explained. "And then if she doesn't crash it, we're stopping for ice cream afterwards. You can join us if you'd like."

"Too cold for me," she said dismissively. He figured she'd say that. A mischievous smile passed over her lips. "Going to check out an S-type shuttle?"

He groaned. "Is there anyone in Starfleet who doesn't know that story?"

"Probably not," she said, taking a sip of her raktajino. "Your father loves to tell that story. He's proud of his son."

"He was, when I was eight."

"He _is_."

"He has an interesting way of showing it." She just shrugged to that, taking another sip of raktajino. He let that pass, unwilling to say or do anything to ruin the good mood. He watched her for a moment, trying not to stare openly. Her dark green dress wasn't especially low-cut in the front, but the fabric hugged her curves in just the right places. She had put something in her hair to make the curls glossier, pinning it back along the sides and letting it hang just past her shoulders. "What about you?" he finally asked before the silence became awkward. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I finally got cleared to start training again," she said with a smile. "So tomorrow, I'm running."

"Really?" he asked. "So I take it that means no more runs in the afternoon."

"Actually, I made sure Coach scheduled a five kilometer cool-down run every afternoon," she replied, grinning slightly. "I'm starting slow, only two to four hours a day for now. I should be up to five or six by the time the fall semester starts."

He shook his head slowly. "You're insane."

She snorted. "You fly much more than that."

"Flying is hardly as taxing as training for the decathlon." She nodded in agreement to that as they lapsed into comfortable silence again. "You know, I never did get that dance."

She frowned at his statement. "What dance?"

"Academy Winter Ball, my firstie year. We were on the way out to the dance floor when you saw your father. You owe me a dance."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't dance, Paris."

_Back down to Paris_. That was usually a sign that she was starting to get annoyed. Instead of saying anything, he stood, standing by her chair with his hand extended. She stared at it for a moment before sighing in resignation, taking his hand and standing to join him.

He guided her away from the covered restaurant area to the dance floor on the patio, an open area with a hardwood floor in front of the band that may or may not have been holographic, for how expressionless the members seemed to be as they played their instruments. There were just the right number of couples on the floor; enough to not feel like the center of attention, but not so many that it seemed crowded.

Torres seemed almost nervous, an observation that made Paris smile inwardly; here was a woman who had no problem speaking her mind or facing opponents twice her size, uneasy on a dance floor. Smiling down at her, he drew her into his arms, his hand trailing down her exposed arm on the way to her waist, feeling the goose bumps that covered her skin. "Cold?" he asked, concerned. Although it was a warm night for May in San Francisco, he knew she had less tolerance for colder weather than he did.

"No," she replied softly, looking up at him before taking his free hand in her own and resting the other lightly on his shoulder. For a split second, Paris thought he saw something in her eyes that gave him a shock of hope, that maybe this was going somewhere after all. Just as he suspected, she was a natural dancer, the grace and strength she exhibited on the track and field carrying over to the dance floor, despite her protests to the contrary. She obviously didn't have much experience dancing, but Paris couldn't care less as he simply enjoyed the feeling of having her in his arms. He saw a couple of kids, probably around ten years old, spinning quickly together with no regard to the tempo of the music. He must have been smiling at it, because he heard Torres quietly demand, "What's so funny?"

He gestured toward the kids with his head. "Just people watching." A minute later, he continued, "I think it was the second time we were here, when I was ten. Sydney had just finished her fourth classman year at the Academy and had been accepted as a junior training officer for the summer orientation session, and Nicki's results from her first round of Academy entrance exams had come in, putting her at some incredibly high percentile. She hadn't told Dad yet that she wasn't planning on going to the Academy. Everyone was in a really good mood. I remember sitting, watching my parents dancing and laughing, and just thinking about how _good_ everything was. The next year was nothing like that. Nicki had just graduated from secondary school and had accepted her position in the freshman class at Yale, and nothing Dad could say could make her change her mind. He didn't talk much at dinner that night, and as soon as we were done eating, my parents left for home. Syd had some training activity at the Academy the next day, so she left, too. Nicki refused to let everyone's bad mood get her down, so she dragged me out to the dance floor. Those kids just reminded me of that, but in a good way."

She smiled slightly up at him. "So you started dancing with admirals' daughters early."

He laughed. "I've been dancing with admirals' daughters—well, at least the daughters of one admiral—since I was eight. They're so much older than me, I didn't have much of a choice in the matter."

She looked at him with mock disbelief. "Tom Paris not having his choice of girls? I find that hard to believe."

He grinned, trying to think of a way to turn her words into flirtation. "I may not have had a say in who I danced with then, but I do now." Even he had to admit that it was a pretty poor attempt, and he could tell by her eye roll that she agreed.

"Idiot," she murmured, but she did adjust her arm slightly, bringing her body closer to his. A minute later, she rested her head against his shoulder. He sighed quietly, closing his eyes as his cheek lightly pressed against her temple. They remained that way for several long minutes, swaying in time with the music, neither making any move away from the other.

They decided to take the least technological way back to Starfleet Academy, aside from walking the thirty kilometers through downtown San Francisco, and boarded the Trans Francisco station a few blocks from the restaurant. Always a fan of transporters, it took both Paris and Torres three stops to figure out where they were and when they needed to get off to get to the Academy. "For someone who grew up in San Francisco, you sure don't know much about it," Torres pointed out with a laugh.

"Maybe I'm always in too much of a hurry to bother with the Trans Fran," he replied.

"Then why are we on it now?"

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "I'm not in a hurry right now." She didn't have a response to that, and quickly changed the subject.

They continued talking throughout the ride and on the short walk from the station to the Academy gates. "You don't have to walk me all the way back to my room, Tom," Torres protested as he followed her into Sato Hall.

"I'm just being gentlemanly," he replied with a grin. "Are you sure you don't want to take the lift?"

"I take the stairs every day, I think I can handle it," she shot back. "Or are you saying you don't have the stamina to climb five flights of stairs?"

"No, not at all," he assured her. "And I didn't mean to imply anything about yours, either. I know you climb these stairs multiple times a day, but I also know you usually don't do it in those shoes." To go with the dress, she had traded her usual heeled duty boots for a pair of strappy sandals with a thin heel a few centimeters higher than her usual footwear. Having grown up with two sisters, Paris long ago learned not to question why girls wore such things, but he still couldn't figure out how they could walk in them.

She fixed him with one of those famous "you're an idiot" looks before turning back to the stairs, climbing them in silence. Room 613 was halfway down the corridor, which was all but deserted on the first night after finals were over. "Well," Torres finally said, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Thanks for dinner."

He grinned down at her. "You're welcome," he said softly. He wished he could say something else, wished he could lean down and kiss her, but the ball was in her court now. He had told her he was in love with her—twice—and she hadn't said anything to contradict her previous claims that she wasn't looking for a relationship with him. He had to give her just enough distance to let her make up her own mind, but not enough to make her think he lost interest.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow at 1800 for our run," she said.

"Yeah," he replied with a nod. "Are you sure about ice cream tomorrow? I doubt Navi would mind if you joined us."

"I'll think about it," she said, smiling slightly. "Goodnight, Tom." She turned, quickly entering her code into the access pad before he could react.

"Goodnight," he returned, watching the door swing shut behind her. _Another time—maybe,_ he thought with a sigh, heading back down the corridor.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19—2369**

* * *

The weeks went by without notable events or changes to the usual routine. Paris continued his test flights on Starfleet's next experimental shuttle, giving Navi Torres flight lessons on the weekends and enjoying his daily afternoon runs with her older sister. On some days, like the one he was currently enjoying, he finished at R&D early, signing out and heading for the Academy field to watch one cadet in particular go through the abuse of decathlon training.

At that time in the afternoon, there were usually very few people on the practice fields, with the plebes in class and most of the few cadets and officers on campus uninterested in the territory the track team so fervently protected as their own. Paris saw one person running laps around the track and one other sprinting toward a horizontal bar, a long pole in hand. He watched with a smile on his face as Cadet B'Elanna Torres planted the pole, arcing toward the bar and clearing it, the pole falling forgotten to the ground as she landed flat on her back on the thick mat. He didn't remember what heights she was clearing when he watched her at the Starfleet Invite more than two years ago, but it looked like she was doing fairly well. If he didn't know any better, he wouldn't know that seven months before, she was lying unconscious in a hospital bed with little or no hope of ever being able to compete again.

She crawled off the mat, a grimace on her face as she rolled out her shoulders and headed over to the standards holding up the bar, keying in the command to raise it another ten centimeters. He had seen her go through this routine a few times: she started at a height she could easily clear and raised the bar by ten centimeters after each jump until she couldn't clear it, at which point she gave herself three tries before accepting defeat. Not knowing how much longer it would be, he made himself comfortable in the stands.

She had cleared four more heights before knocking the bar from the standards with her arms on the first attempt at the new height, twisting her body and landing hard on her left shoulder. This time, he grimaced for her, but she had a determined expression on her face as she retrieved the pole and headed back to the start of the runway, counting her steps as she walked. On the second try, she smacked the bar with her knee. The third, her steps were off, throwing off her momentum and sending her flying underneath the bar. She remained on the mat for a few long minutes, staring up at the sky. That was Paris' cue that it was okay to approach.

"You missed," he joked with a grin, standing at the edge of the thick mat.

"Thanks," she shot back sarcastically. "I didn't notice." She pulled herself into a seating position before rolling off the edge of the meter and a half thick mat, grimacing as she straightened.

"You okay?" he asked, reaching out to massage her shoulders. She groaned, rolling her head forward to stretch out her neck.

"Yeah," she said, her voice muffled. She groaned again, this time in protest as he took his hands away. He had noticed that lately, that there was more casual contact between the two of them—a shoulder rub, her hand on his elbow, his hand at the small of her back as he guided her through a doorway, fingers brushing together lightly as they walked side-by-side. He suspected that some of it was accidental, but he couldn't help but wonder how much of it wasn't.

"Those landings look pretty rough," he commented as she headed over to the standards, checking her final height before resetting the bar to its resting position.

"It's not that bad. The mat is pretty soft, actually," she said distractedly as she collected the poles at the side of the runway. "Some were pretty rough."

"Too rough for you to go on our run?" he asked innocently, already knowing the answer. Sure enough, she hit him with a pointed look.

"The day I can't keep up with you on a run is the day I retire from Starfleet," she shot back. "Let me get these to storage, then we can go." Knowing how heavy they were, he offered a hand, which she didn't refuse.

Despite her landings and the bruises he was sure would result, Torres was in high spirits on their run, talking excitedly about her research project and how it was going, bringing up the possibility of a publication before the end of the fall semester. He could only shake his head in wonder; she must have held the record for number of papers accepted for publication by any cadet at Starfleet Academy, and she was showing no signs of slowing down before graduation.

The five kilometer run ended quickly, more so than any other day. Paris was fighting to catch his breath from the increased pace, but Torres was still talking as if she had been standing still for those twenty-three minutes. "Do you want to grab something to eat?" she asked, glancing at the wrist chronometer she wore while training.

"Sure," he managed between breaths. "I'll meet you out here in a few minutes." Thanks to his status as an instructor, he had a locker in the gym, where he kept a change of clothes for such instances.

A quick sonic shower and change later, he was back outside the field house, waiting for Torres to appear. She came out a few minutes later, athletic clothes and cadet uniform abandoned in favor of a dark purple tank top and cream pants, her hair in a simple ponytail. "Any place in mind?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Chinese?" she asked. There was one they had frequented several times before nearby, about halfway between the Academy gates and his apartment. He nodded his agreement and they set off. She continued to talk on the way to the restaurant and after they ordered their food, stopping only when she noticed the amused expression on Paris' face. "What?"

"Nothing," he said innocently. "You just seem strangely upbeat for someone who just got beat up by the pole vault mats."

"I cleared 3.9 meters on my last jump before I hit the bar," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "That's the same height I cleared when I broke the Starfleet decathlon record at the Invite. When I started the Academy, my goal was to clear 4.2 by the time I graduate. I think I'm going to make it."

"That's great," he replied with a wide grin, giving her hand a quick squeeze below the table.

"What about you?" she finally asked, still failing to extract her hand from his. "How was your day?" They spent the rest of the meal discussing shuttle design and warp capability, getting into a discussion about the recent 'speed limit' within the Federation borders as they opened their fortune cookies.

"Anything interesting?" he asked, noticing the intense look of concentration she fixed on the small slip of paper. His was the same type of non-fortune he always seemed to get in his cookies: "Your friendship is a gift. Give it often."

"'A chance you will take in the near future will pay off,'" she read. She shrugged slightly. "I never know what these things are supposed to mean."

He chuckled. "At least yours is a real fortune," he said, handing his over for her to read. "Are you ready to head back to the Academy?"

She shook her head. "I'm still wired. Do you want to go for a walk? It's a nice evening, and it's been awhile since I've walked along the bay."

"Sure," he replied, playfully offering his arm. To his surprise, she took it with a laugh of her own. _She really is in a good mood,_ he thought, grinning down at her. Maybe the post-Survival Strategies depression was truly over once and for all.

They walked the kilometer from the restaurant to the bay in relative quiet, at least compared to the run and dinner. By the water, Torres leaned against the old metal bar preventing one from falling in, her ponytail snapping in the wind. Paris, standing close next to her, began to see her shiver. "Cold?" he asked quietly, moving to stand behind her, rubbing her bare arms.

"A bit," she admitted, leaning into his chest. They continued to stand there in silence for a few minutes before Torres spoke again. "I've always liked the water," she said. "Not to swim in, usually—too cold—but I liked to look at it, especially in a storm or when the waves are high. It always seemed so powerful." She paused. "After my dad left, my mother took me to Qo'noS, where we visited the Sea of Gatan. We were standing on a low cliff, maybe one or two meters off the water, and I was watching the waves against the rocks below. I don't know if it was the wind or if I was distracted, but I fell in the water, almost drowned. My mother had to pull me out and practically resuscitate me."

"That must have been pretty scary," Paris commented.

"I was terrified," Torres confirmed. "I think the worst part was seeing how scared my mother was. I don't think I've ever seen that from her, before or after."

Paris didn't know what to say to that, so, uncharacteristically for him, he didn't say anything, instead lightly pressed his lips to her temple. Neither of them said anything as they watched the small waves against the side of the pier. "I know it's probably not nearly as exciting as the Sea of Gatan," Paris finally said, "but my grandfather has a sailboat on Lake Como, if you want to go sailing sometime."

"I'd like that," Torres replied with the same slight smile she always gave him. He still hadn't figured out what that smile meant, seeming to be equal parts amusement, secrecy, and caring, with maybe a little bit of condescension and admiration mixed in.

Torres shivered again, and Paris became increasingly aware of the goose bumps covering her arms. "I think it's time to get you back indoors," he said with a grin, "before you freeze to death in seventeen degree weather."

The walk back to the Academy took them right through the Marina District and by Paris' apartment. "We can go in and get you a jacket, if you want," Paris offered as they approached the steps to his building's front door. Part of him was hoping she would decline; he was enjoying the current method of keeping her warm, his arm across her shoulders, her arm around his waist, the side of her body pressed against his.

"Thanks," she said softly, giving him that slight smile again. Before they could ascend the few steps to the door, however, she turned under his arm, leaving them facing each other, their bodies only centimeters apart.

Paris didn't know who initiated the kiss, but neither did he care. One moment, he was at the bottom of the stairs looking into her large brown eyes; the next, her lips were on his, one of his hands at her hip and the other still on her shoulder, vaguely feeling her hand at the nape of his neck. When they separated, both slightly breathless, he somehow managed to ask, "Do you still want that jacket?"

She shook her head slowly, that smile on her face. "No," she said softly before tilting her head up to kiss him again.

He didn't know how they made it up the four steps to the front door or how he managed to key in his entry code, nor did he know how they made it up the two flights of stairs and into his third-floor apartment, but for the rest of his life, he knew he'd remember everything all five of his senses were registering that night: the sight of B'Elanna's flushed face and darkened eyes, the smell of her dark hair spread over his pillow, the taste of her lips, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of the soft purrs and low growls coming from her throat as he kissed and caressed every square centimeter of her body. As he drifted off to sleep much later that night, he couldn't help but wonder at the events that brought them there.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20—2369**

* * *

Tom Paris woke the next morning to the sunlight streaming in from the window. He groaned slightly, inwardly cursing the dawn, the uncharacteristically bright day, and the stiff muscles that came from some sort of exercise his body wasn't used to. His eyes snapped open suddenly, remembering the night before and what exactly that exercise was. A quick glance to the warm body curled up next to him confirmed that it wasn't just a dream.

"Good morning," he said with a smile, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

"What time is it?" B'Elanna Torres asked, her eyes still closed and her voice groggy from sleep.

He glanced over at the chronometer, a replicated wind-up alarm clock Nicki had given him for his birthday when he was eleven. "Oh-eight-ten," he replied. She groaned, pulling the thick comforter over her head.

"It's too early," she protested. "Turn out the lights and go back to sleep."

He chuckled; apparently, she wasn't much of a morning person. "It's not the lights," he informed her. "It's the sun. I don't think I can turn it off."

"The sun isn't that bright in San Francisco," she protested, wrapping the covers around her tightly. He chuckled and hummed a few bars of "It's a Beautiful Morning", a rock-and-roll song from the 1960's. She opened one to squint at him questioningly before closing it again, as if it wasn't worth the effort.

"I'm going to get us some breakfast," he announced. "What do you want?"

"More sleep," she replied. She sighed. "Just raktajino. I'm not hungry yet."

He chuckled, extracting his body from hers, hearing several joints pop in protest as he climbed out of bed and plodded over to the replicator in the kitchen, stretching stiff muscles as he entered commands into the machine. Thanks the daily runs, he was in better shape than he had been since his days as a cadet, but running didn't use the same muscles he used the night before.

His thought process was interrupted by the sounds of laughter coming from the bed. He turned to see B'Elanna watching him, a look of amusement on her face. "Feeling a little old?" she asked innocently.

"This is your fault," he replied indignantly. "Thanks to you, it's been eight months." That was a record for him, but he wasn't sure he should comment on that.

"Oh," she replied with a teasing smile, her eyebrows raised, "so _that's_ why you're out of practice."

"Well, you know what they say to do about being out of practice," he replied, surprising her by all but flying back into bed on top of her.

"What's that?" she asked softly.

"More practice," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her lightly. He pulled away to kiss his way down his neck, but stopped at the expression on Torres' face.

"Tom," she said softly, her hand caressing his cheek. "I love you."

He smiled down at her, his weight resting on one elbow as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with the other hand. "I love you," he replied before kissing her again.

Their breakfast sat in the replicator, forgotten.

---

They finally left the apartment around 1230, a few hours after Torres declared she was hungry and they should get something to eat. Before they could do that they had to shower, and a shared sonic shower got them right back into the bed they had just left. They finally gathered the strength and willpower to get out of that comfortable bed, replicate some clothes, and make their way to a small corner café a few blocks from Paris' apartment.

"I was supposed to run hurdles this morning," Torres mused as she sipped from her glass of water.

"Aren't you allowed a day of cross-training a week?" Paris asked with a grin.

She rolled her eyes. "I can imagine explaining that to Coach. 'I'm sorry, Commander, but I was cross-training. I spent the morning in bed with Lt. Paris.'"

"Sounds good to me." She snorted in reply.

"So what time is your flying lesson with Navi?" she asked. The shuttle lessons and ice cream were part of his normal Saturday ritual.

"Fourteen hundred," he replied. He idly ran his fingers against the outside of her exposed knee to the hem of her skirt before she swatted his hand away. "We spend two hours in the shuttle, then head out for ice cream between sixteen hundred and sixteen fifteen. You should join us."

"I don't think so," she said quickly. "She's a telepath, remember? I think there are some things I'd rather not have a nine-year-old aware of. I think we should be careful about being together around her." Her eyebrows rose. "At least, until you learn how to control yourself."

"Me, control myself?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "I seem to remember you—"

"Thanks," Torres said to the waiter bringing their food, effectively cutting him off. Paris chuckled. She watched him walk away before turning back to Paris. "I just think we should keep this to ourselves for a little while."

He frowned, trying to figure out if he was supposed to be reading between the lines. "People are going to find out eventually," he pointed out.

"I just don't think it's anybody's business how we feel about each other," Torres replied heatedly.

_Great_, Paris thought. _We've been together for twelve hours and we're already fighting_. "Okay," he replied. "We'll keep a low profile. For now."

Realizing that she came down just a little bit too harshly, Torres gave him a teasing smile. "'For now'? You make it seem like you see a future in this, Lieutenant."

"I would never be so presumptuous," he replied with a grin.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21—2369**

* * *

The remaining few weeks of the summer term preceded much the same as the previous few, with a notable exception in a change of sleeping arrangements. Since Academy regulations and curfews were somewhat lax with upperclassmen during the summer term, there was no mandatory check-in to the dorms at night, freeing Cadet First Class B'Elanna Torres to sleep wherever she pleased, which was mostly in Lt. Tom Paris' apartment. Their days of staying in bed until noon were few and far between, however, as work and training schedules usually had them both out of bed early in the morning, but with their late afternoon runs and dinners together, the nights they didn't go to bed together were equally few and far between.

The first Saturday night in August, the last Saturday night before classes resumed on Monday, Paris and Torres were on their usual run through Marina Green, the largest park in the Marina District, close to the Academy grounds on the Presidio. They were deep in a conversation about vacation spots around Earth when Paris heard two distinctly familiar voices calling, "Tommy!"

"Oh, no," he muttered. "Keep running. Pretend you don't hear anything," he instructed Torres at her puzzled expression. Ignoring his commands, she turned her head, seeing two fairly attractive blond women on a picnic blanket near the play structure.

A minute later, he saw streaks of blond hair as the kids ran up to him. "Uncle Tommy! Come play with us!" they pleaded, struggling to catch up.

"Not fair," he muttered. "Well, they asked for it." Without any warning, he let out a loud war-cry, bending down to swoop up a small girl with curly blond hair, throwing her over his shoulder as she cried out in excitement. "Ready to meet my sisters?" he asked Torres with an ironic grin. She raised her eyebrows in reply and followed him to the picnic blanket, the five-year-old still squirming and giggling in his arms.

"I think you lost something, Syd," he said dryly, dangling the girl by her feet. She was now squealing to be let down, even as she was still giggling in excitement.

"Good thing you were around to find it," Lt. Commander Sydney Wyland replied, equally dry. "Now will you please put my daughter down before her face stays that red?"

He swung her into the air, earning him another squeal of delight before putting her down on her feet. She swayed slightly for a few seconds, then gave her uncle a quick hug and ran off to play with her brother and cousins. Paris watched in amusement for a moment before turning back to his sisters. "I didn't know either of you was going to be around."

Dr. Nichole Sanders shrugged a shoulder. "Syd and Jens are in from the _Pathrind_ for a week, so Jason and I decided to bring the kids over for the weekend for some family bonding time."

"I suppose my invitation got lost in subspace," Paris replied with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sanders smirked back. "No, midget. You probably just haven't opened it yet. I only messaged you an hour ago to let you know we were having dinner on the Green. Actually, when I saw you a few minutes ago, I thought you were coming to join us." Her eyes went from her brother to the petite half-Klingon next to him and back, a grin playing across her lips. "Mom said she thought you were seeing someone, but she had no idea who. Weird thing was, when she said that, Dad got this really strange look on his face, so I figured this has to be the first time Dad knows something that Mom doesn't."

"You told him?" Torres asked Paris in disbelief.

He gave her a 'yeah, right' look. "I was going to ask _you_ that." She only shook her head in reply. Nicki was still watching them, amused.

"I'm Nicki," she finally interjected, offering her hand. "And that's Sydney. Has he told you the horror stories of his evil older sisters?"

"They weren't exactly horror stories," Torres said, sounding slightly uncertain. Both sisters laughed at this, to Torres' confusion. "B'Elanna Torres," she finally introduced.

Sanders continued to study her. "Would that be Lt. Torres, Ensign Torres…?"

Torres opened her mouth to reply, but Paris was faster. "And why do you care, Dr. Sanders?"

She shrugged. "I don't. Just curious. Anyway, I'm not sure about the state of the food stores, since four kids have already gone through it—I'm assuming you don't want the baby food—but let's see if we can scrounge up something for you." She immediately headed for the picnic basket, focused on the task of getting them something to eat, leaving Paris and Torres standing with Wyland.

"Lt. Commander Sydney Wyland," she introduced to Torres. "I'm the chief of security on the _USS Pathrind_."

"She doesn't need to hear your entire resume, Syd," Paris said dryly. "You could just say, 'it's nice to meet you.'"

She flushed slightly, but otherwise ignored her younger brother. "Are you stationed at R&D with Tom?"

Once again, Paris interjected before Torres had the opportunity to respond. "Believe it or not, Syd, most people have more interesting things to talk about than their jobs. How're the kids?"

Torres glared briefly at him, answering Wyland's question before she had the opportunity to answer his. "I'm an engineering major," she said. "At the Academy."

"Oh," Wyland replied, briefly arching her eyebrows at Paris. "So you're a cadet."

"We still have some fried chicken and potato salad," Nicki replied, carrying two containers of food. She sighed deeply at the glares between her siblings and the slightly confused expression on the cadet's face. "Stop fighting already. Tommy, B'Elanna, come get some food before Christopher decides he wants to eat again."

"We'll talk later," Wyland said to her brother.

"Not likely," Paris muttered under his breath.

She did manage to pull him aside about an hour later, while B'Elanna was in the middle of a conversation with Nicki about her pediatrics practice in Denver, Colorado. "You're an _instructor_, Tom," Commander Sydney Wyland hissed at him.

"He's not _my_ instructor," Torres interjected, her hands on her hips and her chin raised to survey the taller woman. Paris startled slightly; he had been so busy leaning against a tree and glaring down at his sister to notice her approach.

Wyland sighed. "I'm sorry, B'Elanna, this has nothing to do with you. I was just pointing out the dangers of fraternization to my brother."

"It does have to do with me," Torres argued. "You're either implying that I'm too stupid to make the distinction between an officer and a cadet and therefore didn't know any better, or that I'm somehow trying to take advantage of some situation that doesn't exist by sleeping with an instructor. He's not the only one who chose to be in this relationship."

"Thanks, B'Elanna," Paris said with a grin, putting his arm around her shoulder and drawing her close to kiss her temple. Turning back to his sister, he smirked, remembering something. "Are you saying that any officer who dates a cadet is guilty of fraternization?"

Wyland flushed, her eyes narrowing into a glare. "You're an ass, Tom," she hissed before stalking off.

"What was _that_ about?" Torres asked in wonder.

Paris shrugged. "Nothing, really. Jens graduated the year before her, so technically, he was an officer dating a cadet. You ready to go home?" He didn't even realize until he said it how much it sounded like it was _their_ home, and how little that bothered him.

"Sure," Torres replied. "Nicki asked if we were going to your parents' tomorrow night for dinner."

"Well, you've already met my father, sisters, nieces, and nephews. Might as well finish it off and meet the rest," he replied with a quirky grin. "I think the only ones left are my mother and brothers-in-law."

They were quiet as they jogged back to Paris' apartment, where they both sat down to their separate projects from work. It wasn't until they were getting ready for bed that Torres brought up the incident in the park. "Maybe Sydney has a point," she said out the blue.

Paris frowned as he tried to figure out what she was talking about. "That's not likely," he said lightly. "I've known her for twenty-four years and she very rarely has a point."

"I mean about the fraternization thing," Torres replied. He opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it. "_We_ both know it isn't improper, but I'm sure there are a lot of people who wouldn't see it that way."

"Don't worry about what Syd says," Paris told her. "She's a security chief. Her job is to memorize esoteric Starfleet protocols and make sure everyone is following each to the letter. The officers who would think anything inappropriate is going on are few and far between."

She frowned. "We should still be careful about appearances, especially with classes starting on Monday," she went on. "Maybe we shouldn't be running together in the afternoons."

He sighed. "B'Elanna, you're blowing this out of proportion," he protested. Seeing the beginnings of an angry frown on her face, he sighed again, knowing already that this would be an argument he would lose. "What is this about? Are you really that concerned about a few words from my older sister?" Her jaw set, she averted her eyes, staring out the window behind him. "Sydney may be a bit of a bitch sometimes, but she didn't mean anything against you personally. Believe me, all of her protests about our relationship are that I'm a lieutenant and you're a cadet."

"It's not Sydney," she finally said. She sighed. "I'm going to be applying for a posting at R&D with the Warp Technologies Development Group after graduation."

"That's a pretty prestigious posting," he said, not at all surprised, considering the extent of her work on warp drive mechanics in Admiral Yasinski's lab. "I don't see what that has to do with Sydney, though."

"Nothing," she snapped before closing her eyes. He knew she was silently counting to ten, trying to stay calm. With a deep breath, she continued. "It has nothing to do with Sydney. I just want to make sure people know I'm applying because I'm qualified, not because of our relationship."

"What does our relationship have to do with anything?" Paris asked, now completely confused. "Just because I work at R&D? There are thousands of officers who work for R I doubt they would even notice."

"It's not that," she said, trying to figure out how to explain without hurting his feelings. "I don't want them to think I'm getting any special favors because I'm dating Admiral Paris' son," she finished in a rush.

He blinked in surprise; that she would feel that way never occurred to him. "So you don't want to be seen with me because of my father," he said flatly.

"No!" she exclaimed. "Dammit, Tom, you're making this out to be something it's not." She sighed again in frustration. "I don't like feeling like people are gossiping about me. I like keeping my personal life personal, and I know you say it's no big deal to you that people might whisper about fraternization, but it's a big deal to me. Now that it finally feels like I'm going to have a career in Starfleet, I don't want to do anything to jeopardize it."

"So what are you saying? That you want to break up with me because you're worried about the _impression_ of impropriety?"

"No!" she exclaimed again. "I don't want to break up at all! For some stupid reason that I can't begin to fathom, I've fallen in love with you, and the last thing I want to do is lose you. I just don't want to advertise that to people who might get the wrong idea."

He laughed bitterly. "Don't you think I know that? Do you honestly think I'm so dense that I didn't see how uncomfortable you were whenever we were walking across campus together in uniform? Why do you think I didn't want you to tell Sydney that you were a cadet? I couldn't care less if Syd yells at me for fraternization; she's yelled at me for much lesser things over the last twenty-four years, but I knew it would bother you."

"I just didn't realize how much it would bother me until she said something," Torres admitted.

"Then _trust_ me for once!" Paris shot back. "Damn, B'Elanna, I know you're not dating me for my father's influence, but why _are_ you dating me? You don't listen to me, you're afraid to be seen with me, we're _nothing_ alike. What is it? The sex?"

In his ranting, he had begun pacing, facing away from Torres. When she didn't say anything right away, he turned to see her still sitting on the bed, looking like she had been struck. "Is that really what you think?" she asked, her voice quiet but anything but small. "That it's all about the sex?"

"What am I supposed to think?" he asked, matching her volume and intensity.

Ignoring his question, Torres finally turned to face him. "You've stuck by me through _a lot_—plebe year, a coma, all the issues afterwards, the demands for my time and my attention. You've accepted me for who I am from the beginning, and instead of trying to change me into someone else, you've helped me grow into someone I can actually respect. You know what to say to make me laugh when I feel like nothing can. You're still a pig most of the time, but...I'm not used to someone caring like that." The corner of her lip twitched, her eyes glinting slightly. "And the sex is pretty damned good."

Despite himself, Paris softened, his lips curling into a smile. He had been ready with a counter-argument until she threw in that last line, which he knew was only to disarm him. Her demands for privacy were annoying at times, but with her history with her parents and the other kids at school growing up, he was beginning to understand them. Leaning forward on his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, he kissed her gently. "No more runs," he agreed in a murmur.

She nodded, tilting her head up to kiss him again. "I'm sorry I defined you by your father," she said softly. "I know how much you hate that."

"Yeah," he sighed, resting his forehead against hers. He knew that he didn't have to tell her exactly how much that comment had stung; he had been defined by Admiral Owen Paris for his entire life, and she was the last person he would have expected to do it. "You don't really..."

"No," she said forcefully when his voice trailed off. "I love you because you're _you, _not because of anyone you're related to." She pulled back enough to force him to look into her eyes. "I know I don't always know how to say it or show it, but I like who I am more when you're around."

"I like who I am better when you're around, too," he replied honestly before giving her an ironic smile. "Even when you try to pretend not to know me." Her chuckle was just as ironic as his smile had been. He kissed her again, pressing forward until she was lying on her back across the bed. "Your curfew starts again tomorrow. You know what that means."

She arched her eyebrows before giving him a feral grin and stiffening her arms, using the momentum to turn him onto his back. "It means we have tonight."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22—2372**

_A/N: Okay, super-short chapter. Sorry about that. I tried to make it longer, but I was just adding words without adding anything to the story, so I'm sticking to the original length._

* * *

Captain Kathryn Janeway found herself blushing slightly at Lt. Paris' implications about his sex life; although he never went into detail, she was sure it had been an active one. _Ah, to be twenty again_, she mused. "Your relationship obviously survived the fight."

He laughed deeply. "Captain, I'm married to a half-Klingon. You don't seriously think that was our only fight, do you?" He grinned, shaking his head slightly. "I wasn't too far off when I said we're nothing alike, and we're both stubborn. That combination rarely results in easy decision making. Decided what to eat for dinner can turn into an epic battle, and don't get me started on the infamous Apartment Decorating Debacle of 2370." He grinned. "We yell and scream, she throws things—we don't have anything breakable in our apartment anymore—and we make up." That smile widened. "As much as I love the way we make up after a fight, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the fighting as well, just in a different way. Her passion was the first thing I noticed about her and the first thing I fell in love with. She keeps me on my toes."

Janeway couldn't help but notice that he slipped back into present tense, as if the past seven months never happened, as if he still lived in that apartment and still argued with his wife. "So you kept things quiet?"

He nodded. "No more runs, at least not in San Francisco. As a cadet first class, she had liberty almost every weekend—she worked hard to stay out of trouble so she wouldn't lose it. I tried to work my schedule to get weekends off, and we got as far away from Starfleet Academy as we could—sailing on Lake Como when the weather was nice enough, trips to Marseilles, water skiing in Tahiti. We took advantage of it while we could, because we knew as soon as indoor track season started, she'd be so busy training that we couldn't get away."

"Did people find out?"

"At first, no," he said. "My family knew, and so did hers. Well, the family she had who she actually talked to. She was still seeing her counselor, a hybrid-certified psychiatrist, once a month, and he knew, but he was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. Srani knew something was going on—it would damn near impossible to hide a relationship from a Betazoid roommate—but she didn't know specifics, such as who I was. She was determined to find out, though. It was that determination that forced our relationship forward from the comfortable clandestine affair that it was and out into the open, where we were finally forced to figure out exactly what we were and what we wanted to be."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23—2369**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris glanced at the woman sitting across from him as he refilled both of their glasses from the bottle of red wine. "How do you like Greece?"

"I could get used to this," Cadet B'Elanna Torres replied with a smile. "Warm sun, comfortable beaches, good food, someone to wait on me hand and foot…I'm tempted to just leave the Academy and make this a permanent arrangement."

He snorted. "You'd last two days before you were bored out of your mind and trying to build a warp core from scratch." He had to admit, though, that it was a tempting idea, especially if she was going to be lounging around in that yellow sundress, or, better yet, that bikini she was wearing on the beach earlier that day. "How is track season so far?"

She made a face at the change in subject. "You know how I feel about indoor track and field."

"The only purpose is to stay in shape for outdoor track and field," he finished. She nodded in agreement with another sip of her wine.

"Reyana's having an engagement party," she said after a period of companionable silence.

"Betazoids have engagement parties?"

"Apparently." Another sip of wine. "It's two weeks from today, in Australia, so we're going to have to cancel our usual weekend retreat."

He shrugged. "Guess I'll be getting some extra hours in on the new shuttle."

"No, you won't." He frowned at her matter-of-fact tone. "She's going to have a day of pampering before the event and 'invited' me along—an authentic Betazoid spa with mudbaths and everything." She made a face and he laughed, knowing that her usual beauty routine involved a sonic shower, thirty seconds of makeup application, and running a brush through her hair before tying it up into a bun or braid. "She also insisted that this mystery boyfriend of mine come to the party, made some vague threats about moving out of the room that I'm pretty sure she can't follow up on if you don't."

"You sure about this?" He thought about that for a minute. "Wait a minute—is this some sort of Betazoid event?"

"She assured me that everyone'll be clothed," Torres replied with a smirk. "Apparently they only dispense of clothes for their weddings. And yeah, I'm sure. It's just a civilian event."

"A civilian event that will undoubtedly have a fair number of Starfleet officers," he pointed out. "The Sranis are very well-connected, and didn't you say this fiancée is a distant cousin of the Troi family?"

"Well, _I'll_ be wearing a dress, not a uniform," Torres said with a slight smile, letting him picture what she would look like in an evening gown. "And since it is a civilian event, nobody said you have to show up in uniform, either. Other than Reyana, I doubt anyone would know that you're an officer."

He had to nod his acknowledgement at this; after all, despite his father's position in the admiralty, it wasn't as if he was well-known enough that people would be able to recognize him as Lt. Thomas Eugene Paris without the context of his uniform. "Okay. If that's what you want."

She nodded, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "It is. Well, it's what I want for two weeks from now. I have entirely other things in mind for _this_ weekend."

He grinned in reply. Their weekends together were far too short, and now that track season had started, far too far between. It was Saturday evening in Greece, and she had to be back in San Francisco at 1200 on Sunday, which with the time zones gave them about twenty-four more hours together, twenty-four hours that would have to last them two weeks, as she had a meet the next weekend. "Your wish is my command," he said regally, drawing out another throaty laugh from her.

"I could _definitely_ get used to this."

---

Tom Paris paused briefly as the tingling sensation died away following transport, and immediately yawned. Although it was a few minutes after 2000 in Tasmania, it was 0200 that morning in San Francisco. Despite a lifetime of transporting all over the world, he was still thrown off by time zone changes.

The air was thicker in this rainforest area off the southern coast of Australia, thicker and much warmer than the cold November drizzle he just left behind. _Not bad,_ he thought with a nod as he exited the transporter station, _not bad at all_. Although he had been to Australia several times for sailing and diving, he hadn't been to the Betazoid compound on Tasmanian Island since he was a kid.

Torres was exactly where Paris expected to find her, leaning against the waist-high wooden fence at the edge of the compound grounds, less than a meter from the tall cliffs plunging into the waters below, watching the changing colors of the sky as the sun set over the ocean. She looked peaceful standing there, so much so that he hesitated to approach, satisfied with watching her for a few minutes. Her hair appeared longer than he remembered from the last time he had seen it down, two weeks before in Greece, and was styled elaborately with layers of glossy curls cascading over her bare shoulders. Following the lines of her hair down, he almost forgot to breathe as he took in the look of her gown, which was deep purple, low-cut in the front, narrow straps criss-crossing her raised vertebrae in the back, and hugging every single one of her curves. "You look amazing," he said in a low voice as he approached, leaning down to kiss her properly, just in case she didn't believe his words.

"Thanks," she said with a smile as they separated. "You don't look so bad yourself, Flyboy." He was sporting a fresh haircut and had replicated the new formal attire specifically for the occasion after dismissing his other two formal civilian outfits.

"How was the whole Betazoid spa experience?" he asked, leaning forward on the fence to match her posture and watch the sunset.

He saw her shrug a shoulder out of his peripheral vision. "I thought it was a bit overrated, but Reyana enjoyed it. I guess mudbaths just aren't my thing."

"That's too bad," he replied with a suggestive drawl, making her laugh and roll her eyes. "They did a good job with your hair."

Touching a curl self-consciously, she make a face conveying exasperation of some sort. "They made it longer and put all sorts of layers in it. It's going to be a pain to get into a braid or bun unless I go somewhere and get it fixed." He couldn't help but grin at her utilitarian and practical fashion philosophies—she liked to do just enough to get by. "Do you mind if we watch the rest of the sunset before going in?" she asked, glancing sideways to gauge his reaction.

"Not at all. It's a nice night," he replied smoothly. A quick glance backwards into the main house of the compound proved that the party was already well under way. "I take it everyone's inside already?"

"Reyana said people will be coming and going all evening, but yes, she's in there, as is Kennan."

"The fiancée?"

She nodded. "Kennan Xerin. You'll undoubtedly meet him; he'll be following Reyana around like a lost puppy dog." She shrugged. "Apparently that's normal for Betazoid men."

"They are a highly matriarchal society," Paris pointed out. He grinned. "You want me to start following you around?"

She snorted. "Try it, and see how long you live." They both laughed and watched the rest of the sunset in silence before turning to enter the large house.

Immediately, Paris was struck by just how many high-ranking Starfleet officers were in attendance, both in and out of dress uniforms. Nudging Torres, he gestured with his head to a couple standing several meters away. "Counselor Troi and Commander Riker," he said softly. A quick glance around the room revealed several others. "I think half of the senior staff of the _Enterprise_ is here."

"You know any of them?"

He shook his head. "I met Captain Picard once, when I was fourteen. I doubt he'd remember me."

"What was he like?" she asked.

He had to think about that for a minute. "French," he finally declared. At her eye roll, he shrugged indifference. "I was fourteen. I was much more concerned with flying and girls than starship captains." She rolled her eyes again. "Anyway, where's Srani? We should probably offer our congratulations to the happy couple."

She scanned the room before her eyes settled on the tall figure of her roommate, tonight clad in a metallic gold gown equally low-cut and figure-fitting as Torres' dress. She led their way to the other side of the room, Paris' hand at the small of her back. Maybe due to her telepathic abilities, Cadet Srani turned toward them as they approached, a wide smile crossing her face. "Lt. Paris," she said, nodding her head slightly. "I suspected that it would be you who was the cause of B'Elanna's recent happiness, as well as her notable absences from campus on the weekends."

"Well, I don't know if I can claim to be the source of any positive feelings, but as far as getting her away on the weekends, I'm guilty as charged," he replied with a grin.

She nodded her head again, still smiling. He couldn't help but notice that her entire face—in fact, all of the exposed skin on her body—was liberally dotted with freckles, something he had never noticed before. He wondered if that was the result of the Betazoid spa treatment. Standing next to her was a Betazoid man equal to her in height, his hair an almost comical shade of red. She made the introductions. "Kennan, this is my roommate, B'Elanna Torres, and her," she paused, either trying to figure out the correct word or conveying something to her betrothed telepathically. Without adding anything, she continued, "Lt. Thomas Paris. Tom, B'Elanna, my bonded, Kennan Xerin."

After expressing their pleasantries and congratulations, Paris turned to Srani. "I'm curious, Srani, about what exactly you said to Kennan to describe me."

"So am I," Torres added.

"It is not so simple to explain," Xerin said. "Telepathy is not merely the exchange of words between minds, but rather the exchange of ideas or concepts. Reyana chose to explain your relationship telepathically when she could not find a word or phrase to adequately describe what she knows and has observed."

"Kennan is a linguist," Srani explained with a smile.

"Oh, so that's why you're always grammatically correct when you speak," Paris observed.

"That is correct," Srani confirmed with a nod, glancing over at her fiancée. "When children are bonded for marriage, there is a telepathic exchange of personality traits and characterizations which continues throughout the life of a bonded couple. As Kennan developed the talent for languages, I began expressing some of those traits myself."

Torres glanced over at Paris, a dubious expression on her face. "Thank Kahless we're not Betazoid. I don't think I could stand having _any_ of your personality traits."

Paris chuckled, but Xerin, not getting the joke, rushed to counter that. "If you shared these traits, you would have a common point of understanding about them, and they would not be a source of irritation to you."

Srani laughed quietly and placed her hand on her betrothed's arm. "It was a joke, Kennan." Both were silent for a few seconds before Xerin nodded his understanding.

"I apologize," he said to the couple in front of them. "I did not mean any offense. I have not spent much time around humans growing up, and am still finding it difficult to pick up on sarcasm and humorous insults. My bonding with Reyana has helped with that, but I do occasionally make mistakes." Instantly, a concerned expression crossed his face, and he turned to his future wife. "You are agitated," he stated.

"Kesana has arrived," she explained, her mouth set in a disappointed line. "And she has brought Dr. Williams with her."

"That sounds like a human name," Paris said, his eyebrows raised.

"It is," Srani replied flatly. "He is a Starfleet physician whom my sister met during a semester course on Vulcan for her Interplanetary Relations and Communications degree. They have become involved, which has prompted Kesana to request to be 'unbound', for lack of a better term, from the man she was bonded to as child. My mother has not been pleased since she received the news."

"So that's the source of the family emergencies," Paris stated, putting together the pieces that he had heard from both Torres and Srani.

"Yes. In addition to the embarrassment to the family that would result from the request to dissolve the union between my sister and her bonded, my mother does not believe that it would be appropriate for the future Betazed representative to the Federation to be married to a human."

"Makes sense," Paris said dryly. "I can't see what parent would want that for their child."

"I did not mean any offense, Lieutenant," Srani added quickly. "The objections lie in the role of the representative, to express the ideals and wishes of the Betazoid people to the Federation. If one does not have those ideals and wishes for herself, how can she adequately express them? In addition, Kesana's eldest daughter will also be heir to the Third House of Betazed, and thus, heir to the position of Representative. Mother fears that if that daughter is only half-Betazoid, she would not be equipped to handle such responsibilities."

"What about Counselor Troi?" Paris asked, indicating the half-Betazoid counselor of the _Enterprise_. "Her mother is the heir to the Fifth House, isn't she?"

"Yes, Ambassador Troi is the heir to my House," Xerin confirmed. "But her daughter has declined that position for herself, as well as the position of Betazed ambassador. A cousin has been selected as heir in her place, assuming Ambassador Troi does not have any more daughters in the future." He turned to Torres. "Representative Srani's concerns are both that her granddaughter would not be interested in serving Betazed as representative and that the Betazoid people would not accept her to do so. It would be similar to the Klingon Empire choosing a half-Klingon to speak for them."

"Actually," Torres countered triumphantly, "a few years ago, one special emissary from the Klingon Empire to the Federation was half-human. From what my mother told me, the High Council believed that her background gave her a unique perspective of both sides of the issues."

Xerin raised his eyebrows at this and nodded diplomatically. "That is an opinion that I do not believe Representative Srani had considered. It may be wise to point this out to her, as it may change her attitude on Kesana's relationship with Dr. Williams."

"I'm sorry, but I should go counsel my mother and sister," Cadet Srani apologized to her guests. "If I do not see you again tonight, I will see you soon back in San Francisco." She nodded again, making her way through the crowds to the other members of the Srani family, Xerin again close at her heels. Paris and Torres merely looked at each other, eyebrows raised, before finding someone else to mingle with.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24—2369**

* * *

The party was still going in full swing when Paris and Torres left a few minutes after 0200. They briefly entertained the idea of transporting back to San Francisco, but Torres turned down that idea; with the time zone differences, they had until mid-afternoon Monday Australian time before she had to return to San Francisco for her 2200 curfew on Sunday, and she wanted to take advantage of the warm near-summer weather as long as she could before returning to the near-winter of the northern hemisphere. Never one to argue with a good idea, Paris set his sights on a hotel.

After working a full shift, transporting halfway across the world, and spending most of the night socializing, Paris was eager to get into bed—and sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He joked about this 'half-Klingon induced insomnia' as they crossed the threshold of the hotel. She gave him a slightly feral grin in response.

Despite the festivities less than a kilometer away, the hotel had several rooms available, and Paris pressed his thumb on the PADD offered to him to accept responsibility for one. "Thank you, Lieutenant," the clerk said, glancing at the personnel file that came up. "And for the lady," he said, presenting the PADD to Torres.

Paris frowned. "I accept full liability for the room. I don't see why it's necessary for her to sign in."

"Hotel policy, sir," the clerk said, apologetic. "All guests must be registered. It's a security precaution because we're so close to the Betazoid embassy." Somehow, it didn't seem like the right moment to point out that it wasn't really an 'embassy', as Betazed was a member of the Federation. He did open his mouth to protest the policy, but Torres snatched the PADD from the clerk's hand before he could say anything.

"Is it really worth arguing about, Tom?" she asked, deftly pressing her thumb onto the device before handing it back. The clerk glanced at it and nodded, handing them another PADD so they could set the access code to their room.

"Room 1847, turbolift is immediately to your left," he said, pointing in the general direction. "Have a nice stay."

"I vote for the lift," Paris said as they moved away. "I don't have the patience to climb up the stairs to the eighteenth floor."

"I don't have the shoes for it," Torres agreed with a smile, leaning in for a lingering kiss as the turbolift doors slid closed. Paris found himself willing the lift to move faster.

---

The next morning, Cadet B'Elanna Torres was sitting on the edge of the bed, tying her shoes in preparation for the morning's run. Paris always made fun of her for using shoes with such primitive closures, but she insisted that they provided the best stability as she ran, and he figured he was in no position to debate that.

He was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth when the door to the hotel room chimed. "Who would that be?" Torres called out. He could hear the frown in her voice. His toothbrush still in his mouth, he murmured something unintelligible in response, hearing her cross the room to answer the door.

"Cadet Torres?" he heard a voice ask. "Is Lt. Paris here?"

"I'm Lt. Paris," he replied, stepping out from the bathroom to see two ensigns in security gold at the door. "What is this about?"

Both sets of eyes went from the tall pilot to the petite engineer, both dressed in running clothes and staring back at them questioningly. "Sir, Cadet, we need you to come with us."

"I don't think so," Paris replied bluntly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not scheduled to report to duty until 1200 Monday San Francisco time, and Cadet Torres has liberty until Sunday night curfew. We are free to go wherever we want until those report times."

The ensigns looked at each other before turning back to Paris and Torres. "Sir, there have been some…questions that arose from an Academy instructor and his student checking into the same room on the opposite side of Earth from your stations," one of them said hesitantly.

Paris stared at them for a moment. "We were at an engagement party at the Betazoid manor," he finally said, gesturing toward the formal clothing, now neatly hanging on the rack after Paris tidied the room that morning while Torres continued to sleep. He frowned as the rest of the ensigns words sunk in. "Wait—did you just say my student? We've been dating for months, and B'Elanna has never been my student."

Once again, the ensigns looked at each other in a silent conference that would have made Paris think they were Betazoids if it weren't for their colored eyes. "Sir, maybe you two should just come with us."

Paris turned to Torres and sighed. He couldn't quite interpret her expression, which was somewhere between mortification and fury. He didn't envy the ensigns, assigned to bring in a superior officer for a personal matter, but he cared much more about B'Elanna's feelings than theirs. "I'm sorry, Ensigns, but we're not going anywhere."

"Tom," Torres protested, resigned. "It's probably just a misunderstanding. Let's just get this taken care of so we can get back to our weekend."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise; for once, she was calmer than he was. He nodded slowly. "Okay," he said, turning to the ensigns. "Okay, we'll come. But I want you to contact Admiral Owen Paris and have him meet us there."

The taller ensign blinked. "Admiral Paris?" he managed.

"That's right," Paris replied, fixing him with a cold stare that would have done his father proud. "You get to explain to him why you're bringing in his son and one of _his_former students for questioning." He grabbed his combadge from his open duffel and stiffly strode out of the room, not even giving the security officers the satisfaction of escorting him.

Whoever was in charge at the Tasmanian security office obviously wasted no time in contacting Admiral Paris, who was already at the Starfleet security facility when Paris and Torres arrived with their guards. He nodded to the lieutenant and cadet as they approached, appearing to take note of their running clothes. "Tom, B'Elanna," he greeted. He turned his attention to Torres. "How far did Commander Ulshanov want you to run this morning?"

"Twenty kilometers," she replied, her voice bitter. She had a rigid training schedule, one that did not give allowances for questioning by Starfleet security officers.

Admiral Paris nodded. "That should give us plenty of time to get this straightened out. You have your combadges?" Both nodded the affirmative. "Good. Have them on in case we need to contact you before you get back. We'll see you in less than two hours."

"Sir!" a lieutenant commander sitting behind his desk protested. "We did not send two security officers to pick up Lt. Paris and Cadet Torres to send them off for a run!"

The elder Paris' stare was colder and much more intimidating than anything his son could pull off. "Do you mean to tell me that Starfleet Security on Earth has nothing better to do than interrogate two individuals about their sleeping arrangements? If that is the case, I'm sure we could find your office something to do at the Cardassian-Federation border." The commander swallowed heavily, not sure if Paris had the power to get him reassigned to the DMZ, but not willing to test it. He waved for the guards to let the two guests to leave.

"Now," the elder Paris said in his commanding voice to the security officers who remained. "It will take them less than two hours to run those twenty kilometers. It shouldn't take nearly that long for me to show you where you messed up."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25—2369**

* * *

Torres was quiet during the run, but Paris recognized it as the 'I'm too furious to form a sentence' quiet, not the companionable quiet that he was more used to. He tried to broach the subject early in the run, but was quickly shot down, and remained just as quiet for the remainder, doing all that he could to keep up with her pace.

When they returned, they found Admiral Paris alone in the main lobby, sipping a mug of coffee. "Come in to the conference room," he said as a greeting, trying not to show his amusement at watching his son trying to catch his breath. "I explained the situation to Commander O'Malley," he opened as they sat. "Apparently, there was a glitch in the Academy reporting system, had 'Paris' listed as the Junior Survival Strategies professor for 'Torres', and 'Torres' listed as a private shuttle student of 'Paris.'"

"I give Navi flight lessons," Lt. Paris said weakly.

"I know that, Thomas, and now so does Starfleet Security," Admiral Paris said brusquely. "We got that straightened out, and I explained that the two of you have been dating for months and that your relationship pre-dates Tom's assignment at Starfleet Academy."

"Actually, it doesn't," Tom protested. "We weren't dating when I started as an instructor in January."

"If anybody asks, you've been dating since she visited Mars following space walks," Owen countered. "With how often you were seen at Starfleet Medical during her coma, nobody would doubt it." Tom was going to point out that he was still casually seeing Ashley Wilson for another month or so after that day, but the determined look on his father's face stopped him.

"Well, now that that's taken care of, can we go?" Lt. Paris asked.

"Not yet," his father replied with a small sigh. "It may not be much of an issue, but technically, relationships between officers and cadets are fraternization, and you did show up at a diplomatic function with a cadet on your arm."

"Actually, she showed up at a diplomatic function with an officer on her arm," the younger Paris replied with a smirk. "It was her roommate's engagement party. I was the guest."

"Regardless of who invited whom, you are the officer here. Commander O'Malley and I agreed that a two-hour Officer Advancement Course on fraternization followed by a one-hour session with a Starfleet counselor would be a sufficient punishment."

"Punishment for _what?_ We didn't do anything wrong!" Lt. Paris protested.

The admiral held up his hand to quiet his son. "I'm not done. At the end of the semester, you are being transferred back to Captain Hitchcock's command at Utopia Planitia. Thomas, let me finish," he said sternly when Tom opened his mouth to protest again. "He has been requesting that you return to your previous position for a few weeks now, and it's just coincidental that it happened to fall at this time. This is not intended to punish you or get you away from San Francisco. There will be no record of fraternization or this conversation in your personnel file."

Lt. Paris sighed, knowing that his father must have pulled some strings for that last bit. He also knew that he should be glad to be going back to UP, which was where the Fleet's most advanced ships were designed and tested. Using his twentieth-century cars as an analogy, flying the ships from UP was like cruising along in a 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray; the ships at R&D San Francisco were more like the Ford Pinto. The only positive thing about his posting in San Francisco was his proximity to Torres.

He glanced over at the cadet, whose eyes were fixed forward, her jaw set in determination. He had gotten his slap on the wrist and probably ended up ahead, career-wise. He had grown up in the limelight, accustomed to being the center of attention: the much-younger sibling, the only son, the star pilot, the bright pupil. He long ago stopped caring about what people were saying about him. B'Elanna, on the other hand, didn't like anybody talking about her—while not falsely modest, she wasn't even comfortable with praise of her work. "What about B'Elanna?"

The elder Paris' eyes went to the half-Klingon cadet sitting stiffly in the chair nearest the door. "Since she's already seeing a counselor, we can't require her to talk to another about this, but we encourage a conversation with that counselor."

"He already knows," she said, her voice hollow.

"According to regulations, it is the superior officer's responsibility to end any 'inappropriate' relationships," Admiral Paris continued, now talking directly to her. "Therefore, you didn't do anything wrong. There won't be anything in your file."

She laughed bitterly. "That's a stupid argument, and you know it. I'm not an idiot."

"B'Elanna, this is a good thing. Don't fight it," Tom said quietly. She only rolled her eyes and looked away in response.

"As I see it, the cat's out of the bag," Owen continued, forcing a smile. "You don't have to worry about being caught fraternizing anymore." When that didn't get a response from Torres, he turned back to his son. "Your cousin Lucy has a place in Cairns, right on the beach. She's in Luna City for the week, but she said you two are more than welcome to the apartment." That still didn't get a reaction from B'Elanna. "Go up to Cairns, enjoy the sun, go snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef. You may not think so right now, B'Elanna, but this will turn out to be a good thing, for both of you. You don't need to hide anything."

"Thanks, Owen," Torres finally responded, managing a thin smile. She turned back to Tom and nodded slightly. "It's too cold in San Francisco right now. I think I can use the sun."

"I'll probably end up with a sunburn," he joked back. He was caught off-guard when his father tossed a hypospray in his direction.

"Sunscreen," he explained with a smile. "I'll see you both back in San Francisco Sunday night."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26—2372**

* * *

The Owen Paris that Kathryn Janeway remembered—the then-Captain Owen Paris—was gruff on the outside, demanding the best and getting it. For those who knew him better, however, they could see a definite mischievous streak on the inside, very much like the one that Lt. Tom Paris wore closer to the surface. While he was always a stickler for the rules, he seemed to like to see just how far he could take them. He once said that his own father, recognizing his talent for finding loopholes and stretching the truth, told him that he was wasted as a scientist, that a career as a JAG officer would have been better suited for him. She could see him going out and throwing around his influence for his son, but only for a cause that he believed in. "Your wife and father must have gotten along pretty well."

Lt. Paris laughed. "That's an understatement. They understood each other very well—both scientists, overachievers, perfectionists. Even while our relationship was under wraps during the fall semester of her fourth year, she still met with him once a week for lunch or coffee and still came over for dinner at my parents' house fairly often." Paris leaned back in his seat again, staring at the ceiling. "I used to joke that she was only dating me to justify her talks with him. Sometimes, I still have a hard time with how well they get along, considering the underlying tension between me and my father, and the tendency for me and B'Elanna to argue—when they wanted to, it was easy for them to gang up against me, and then I knew I didn't have a chance of coming out on top. I guess I could understand it, though—she never had much of a relationship with her own father, and that Survival Strategies trip was the first time she had much of a father figure, someone who was willing to talk to her and give advice about things that didn't have anything to do with her work in the lab, and I think Dad was able to see that. He also saw things in her that he didn't see out of his own children, and that was a nice change for him." He shrugged. "I guess sometimes we don't even understand why we get along with the people we do."

Janeway nodded slowly, understanding. Her relationship with Captain Paris was easily explained—they were in the same field of study, he had been her research adviser at the Academy and later recommended that she take a position on the _Al-Batani_ with him, knowing her tendency for hard work and not stopping until she had the all the answers to all the questions. Even with those similarities, their relationship was one entirely defined by their work—she never talked to him about the men she was dating or her personal life at all, other than to answer his polite questions about how her mother and sister were doing. He never spoke directly to her about his life, either—she had seen the picture of his kids on his desk at the Academy and overheard boasting stories about them on the _Al-Batani_, even once seeing the blond eight-year-old budding pilot on the ship during a layover on Earth, but that was the extent of it. It would have been strange for them to sit there and have a conversation that didn't go back to nebulae formation or quantum singularities. "He was protective of her."

"In a way," Paris agreed with a frown of concentration on his face. "Physically, she could protect herself, and everyone knew that. He would sometimes remind her that she was allowed to relax, like he did that weekend, and he was probably the only one I've ever met, including myself, who could do that without her threatening bodily harm. Mostly, he was protective of her career, because nobody else was, and she didn't know enough or care enough about Starfleet politics to do it herself."

Janeway nodded her understanding. There was more to being a successful Starfleet officer than doing a job well, and while it was possible for someone outside the system to navigate it, it wasn't easy. "That's probably why he didn't want you two to immediately return to San Francisco after you were brought in for questioning. He managed to get you through without any mention of fraternization in your file because he convinced the right people that you didn't do anything wrong. If you ran back home after that, you would have looked guilty."

Paris nodded. "Yeah, I know, and I think she eventually figured that out, but despite the warmth and the scenery, she was pretty miserable for the rest of that weekend—even though it was just a small number of people who knew what was going on, she had been publicly embarrassed, and that was hard for her. We didn't go out of our way to flaunt our relationship after that—that was something we never did, even after we were married—but we didn't try so hard to hide it anymore, either. We ate dinner together a few times off campus in San Francisco, walked through campus together once or twice, but always very professionally, with no public displays of affection or physical contact between the two of us. The Academy Ball that year was the first time we were together as a couple in uniform, and by that point, everyone knew about my job transfer, so nobody cared about even the impression of impropriety."

"She went with you to the Academy Ball?"

He shrugged. "She went with me, I went with her, there was really no way to distinguish the two. I was there as an instructor, and she was getting the Scott Award for Engineering. Still, we arrived together, left together, and danced a few times, but, like I said, no flaunting of the relationship. We spent most of the time mingling with other people we knew and talking with my parents. Her father and step-mother were there again, as was Navi, who was very excited to get to go. We talked to her for a few minutes, and when he saw that, John Torres almost came over to talk to us, but they began announcing the cadet awards when he was about halfway across the room, and we left shortly thereafter. B'Elanna said that she had nothing to say to her father, and I wasn't going to force the issue."

"Did they ever mend the fence?" Janeway asked quietly.

He shook his head. "No. About a month after we were married, Isela—her grandmother—died. They said a few stilted words of sympathy to each other, but that was it. It was his loss, and I made sure he knew it."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27—2370**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris fixed his gaze on the framed artwork on the wall, suppressing the urge to sigh. _I'm only on Earth for a day and a half, and I'm wasting it here?_ he asked himself bitterly. He fought the temptation to glance at the chronometer, knowing only a few minutes had passed since the last time he looked.

"Lt. Paris, Mr. Torres can see you now," the receptionist finally said. He thanked her and stood, straightening his uniform jacket as he made his way down the short hallway.

"Lt. Tom Paris?" John Torres asked, gesturing toward the chair on the opposite side of his desk. This was the first time Paris had seen him up close, having only glanced at him from across the room at two separate Academy Balls. He was short and slight, his dark hair turning gray at the temples and in his trimmed beard, but his brown eyes had the almost-familiar look of someone not to be underestimated. "I was a little confused about what business a Starfleet Research and Development test pilot would have with an industrial engineer."

"I'm not here for business," Paris admitted. "I wanted to let you know that I plan on asking your daughter to marry me."

Torres blinked in surprise, then frowned. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. My daughter is turning ten in a week."

"She turned twenty-one less a month ago," Paris replied, his voice cold. "I'm talking about B'Elanna, not Navi."

Torres blinked again. "B'Elanna," he finally said. "I haven't spoken to B'Elanna since she was little."

"I know," Paris replied. "I'm not here to ask permission, or even your blessing. I just wanted to let you know." He waited for Torres to respond, but the older man only stared at him for several long minutes. Finally, Paris made moves to stand.

"I didn't want this to happen," Torres said, stopping Paris in his tracks. His eyes, which had gotten a far away look to them, again focused on the uniformed pilot sitting across from him. "Miral and I were young when we married, young and idealistic. We thought that, as long as we loved each other, that cultural differences, personality differences, none of that would matter. In retrospect, Kessik was probably not the best place for us to start out. It was a new colony, and we both wanted the challenge of helping get things set up, the satisfaction of knowing that we did something. We didn't even think about what it would be like to be a mixed couple on a mostly human colony in a time when it looked like the Khitomere Accords weren't going to make it. Things were already a bit shaky when B'Elanna was born, and for some reason, I thought that she would be the answer to all of our problems." He shook his head slowly. "No kid needs that kind of pressure from her parents, to be the only thing keeping them together, especially a kid like B'Elanna. She was so smart, but almost painfully shy, and so sensitive about everything. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I didn't shelter her enough; maybe too much. Miral said I coddled her too much." He paused again. "She—Miral—asked me to leave, when B'Elanna was five. She said it would be best if I didn't try to talk to B'Elanna, not until she was older. I know it was the wrong thing to do, to agree with that, but I was so tired of fighting with her. I asked every year if I could see her, but Miral said no. I wanted her at my wedding. Miral said she wouldn't understand. Finally, when she was ten, I was allowed to take her on a camping trip with my brother and his three kids." He shook his head. "It was too late. I lost my little girl. Seven months later, I had a new little girl, and I told myself that maybe it was for the best, that if I gave Navi everything I couldn't give B'Elanna, that it would somehow be okay." He glanced at a picture on his desk before returning his gaze to Paris. "I loved my daughter, Lieutenant. I still do, but I know it's too late."

Paris watched the older man for a minute. "She's still shy," he finally said. "And still sensitive. Sometimes, it takes awhile to convince her that criticism isn't a personal attack. She's slow to trust people, not used to others actually caring about her, but once she opens up, she's amazing. She has this dry sense of humor that a lot people don't get. She's dedicated, hard-working, and so focused that once she's set her mind on a problem, the rest of the universe doesn't exist until she's found the solution—and she always finds it. She's brilliant. I've never met a piece of machinery that she couldn't take apart and put back together to work better."

Torres nodded. "You love her." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Paris replied bluntly. "Sometimes, she drives me insane. She's so intense that sometimes being around her is like being in the middle of a warp core breach. She doesn't like people to know about her personal life, so there are times that she acts like she doesn't even know me so people won't know we're together. We don't have a lot of the same interests, so trying to decide what we're going to do in our free time usually results in an argument. But even with all of that, I can't live without her. She's the most important person in the world to me. I don't know if she'll have me, but I won't be able to stand myself if I don't try."

"Don't give up on her," Torres ordered. "It's not easy to live with a Klingon. I thought I could do it, but I didn't have it in me. If you love her and want to have a life with her, you can't ever give up on her."

"I won't," Paris promised. "I won't leave her."

---

Tom Paris grinned to himself as he focused the holoimager on the half-Klingon cadet crouched in front of the open shuttle hatch, a hypospanner in one hand and tricorder in the other. "Ah-ha!" she said triumphantly just as Paris snapped the picture. "I found the problem," she said, laying down the tricorder to reach into the panel. She glanced over at Paris and rolled her eyes. "Are you going to do anything, or just sit there and take pictures? This is _your_ father's shuttle."

He snorted. "Just how stupid do you think I am? Do you think I'm going to get anywhere _near_ that shuttle while you're working on it? I know how possessive you are of your projects."

She grinned. "You can get my tools for me."

"I'd rather sit here and take pictures," he replied with a grin of his own. She rolled her eyes and shook her head slightly, returning her attention to the open access panel. It was one of those rare lazy afternoons, track practice cancelled for rest after the recent meet, giving the athletes a chance to recover before the Starfleet Invite that weekend. Paris had worked the night shift at UP, taking the early morning shuttle to San Francisco, and Torres had met him at his parent's house immediately after her last class, still in the red and black uniform of a cadet. "I need an EPS re-router," she said, holding out her hand for the tool. He couldn't help but chuckle as he dug through her toolkit for the proper instrument to hand it over.

"Do you want to get married?" he asked casually.

As focused as she was on her work, it took her a minute to respond. "I never gave it much thought," she said, sounding distracted. Just as he assumed, she wasn't paying that close attention to what he was saying. "I don't exactly have the best role models in that department, but I guess I always just assumed I would someday." Sudden realization crossed her features, and she turned to Paris in astonishment. "Are you _proposing?_"

He gave her a big, stupid grin, and tucked a lose lock of hair behind her ear. "That depends on your answer," he said. "If you said no, then it was just a hypothetical question. If you said yes, then yes."

She continued to stare at him for a moment before a slow grin appeared. "You're going to have to do better than that, Paris," she said teasingly.

He grinned again, leaning forward to kiss her, their crouching positions making it awkward. "B'Elanna, will you marry me?" he asked in a low voice as they separated.

She leaned forward and kissed him again. "It's a good thing you're so good looking."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," she said softly. "Yes, let's get married."


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28—2370**

* * *

Lt. Commander Clay Osborne and Lt. Tom Paris docked their shuttles at Mars Station's orbiting platform and beamed back down to the planet before heading in the general direction of the officer's apartments. "Good flying today, Paris," the older test pilot commented, clasping Paris on the shoulder, who just shrugged.

"It's pretty easy in these shuttles," he dismissed. "I don't think even you could manage to crash one of them."

Osborne chuckled and was about to say something when the figure of a slight woman caught his eye. "Whoa," he said in a low voice. "Don't see many of them around."

"Women?" Paris joked. "About half of the officers on the station meet that description."

"Not like that," Osborne commented, unobtrusively studying the woman standing about fifty meters away, headed in their direction. "Does she look…Klingon, to you?"

Paris grinned widely, quickly covering it up. He, of course, recognized Cadet B'Elanna Torres at Osborne's first words. "Yeah, she does," he said, sounding thoughtful. "Bet she has one hell of a temper. Sounds like my kind of girl."

"I thought you said you have a girlfriend back in San Fran," Osborne said.

"San Francisco is a long way from here," Paris said with a grin. "I bet I could get her into my apartment tonight."

Osborne stared at the younger pilot in astonishment. "You really are a dumb ass, aren't you? Even if it weren't for the fact that she's Klingon and liable to break your neck, I don't think you have it in you." He shook his head slowly. "Okay, you're on. Winner gets the first flight in the _Tizona_ as soon as the repairs are complete." He smirked. "_Wallace_-class tactical striker with a brand new navigation array. I'm going to have a really good flight in that baby."

"You have to win first," Paris replied with a smirk of his own before casually striding forward. He wished he could have seen the look on Osborne's face as he bent down to greet Torres with a kiss. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you," she said in reply, her eyes wide with…something. Tension? Apprehension?

"It couldn't wait for this weekend?" he asked with a leer.

She rolled her eyes. "We need to talk."

Instantly, his grin fell. "No good conversation has started with those words," he warned.

"Don't be an ass," she said sharply. He was about to comment that she was the second person in three minutes to call him that, but judging from the look on her face, she wouldn't have been amused. "Let's just go up to your apartment."

He nodded and put his arm around her shoulder as they headed down the block toward his apartment. He was so preoccupied with worry about what she needed to tell him that he forgot to turn and smirk at Osborne. As always when she was tense, B'Elanna was too keyed up to sit still, pacing furiously in Paris' small apartment. After a few minutes of watching her silently walk back and forth, Paris was losing his patience. "What's going on?"

"I saw Dr. Gault today," Torres finally said. At Paris' blank look, she quickly filled in, "He's the hybrid specialist in OB/GYN."

Paris felt his breath catch in his throat, his eyes widening. He could only think of one reason to be going to an obstetrician/gynecologist. His mind was racing fast enough that he couldn't comprehend any of the thoughts, ranging from, _Did I forget to get a contraceptive booster at my last physical? _to _Parents? We're going to be parents?_ to _What about the rest of track season?_ "What?" he finally croaked out.

Torres halted in her pacing and turned to face him, a look of confusion on her face. A second later, she realized what he was thinking and shook her head quickly. "I had my round of physicals today," she explained. "I told you about that."

"Oh. Right," he said, suddenly remembering. The hybrid department at Starfleet Medical had her scheduled for semi-annual follow-ups after her release from the hospital. She kept putting it off because of her track schedule, waiting for a day she would be available for the several hours needed for the full physical from each specialist. They finally told her that if she didn't come in, they were going to take away her clearance, which only a few days before the Far West Conference championships, was the last thing she wanted to hear. She made the appointment for the next day. "Did he pull your clearance?" he asked, not sure if he was following the conversation.

"What? No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "I got a clean bill of health from everyone." She resumed her pacing, biting the bottom corner of her lip. "Do you know anything about Klingon mating rituals?"

He blinked in surprise before giving a small, involuntarily smirk. "I was a sixteen-year-old boy at one time."

She stopped pacing for a moment and just looked at him before rolling her eyes and resuming walking. "I thought it was all just ridiculous posturing, just like everything else Klingon, all for show, but apparently, there's a real biological basis for it."

Paris frowned, not following her words. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" he suggested.

She sighed, collapsing onto the chair, across the small living room from Paris. "I had to see Drs. Zalun, Pierce, Hrom, D'Koth, Yagasaki, and Gault before my counseling overview with Counselor Troi."

"From the _Enterprise_?" he asked.

She rolled his eyes at his interruption. "I have to have an overview by someone other than Bayrote," she explained, naming her usual psychiatrist. "There are three hybrid-certified counselors at Starfleet Medical. Tylers did my last overview because Bayrote can't and it would be a conflict of interest for my step-mother to see me. The _Enterprise_is in the area, and Counselor Troi is working toward her hybrid certification, so she got the assignment. But that's not important."

"Sorry."

She waved the apology aside. "Of course, everyone wants to make small talk as they're doing their scans, so by the time I got to Dr. Gault, I had the routine down. I walked in and said, 'I feel fine, track season is going well and I broke my own Starfleet record, I'm looking forward to graduation—Academic and Physical Honors, by the way—I got a posting with the Warp Technologies Development Group at UP, and I'm getting married after graduation. Now can you do your scans and give my booster so we can get this over with?'"

He grinned at her candor. By that point, she had probably been at Starfleet Medical for three or four hours, which must have been torture for someone who disliked doctors as much as she did. "Did he?"

She snorted. "Yeah, right. He fixated on the marriage part and started asking all sorts of questions about our sex life."

He coughed in surprise; while he could see why an OB/GYN would ask about that, he couldn't see B'Elanna answering. "What did you say?"

She glared at him briefly. "I told him I like to be on top," she said dryly, making him laugh. It was certainly a true statement, but he doubted she said that. "He wanted to know if we've ever done anything…Klingon. Bites and broken bones. I, of course, said no." They hadn't. "He kind of hmmed a bit, then asked if we were planning on having kids and when."

He blinked as he realized that they had never talked about children and wondered if that was unusual. Wasn't that something that most couples talked about before planning on getting married? If not, it probably should be. As if reading his mind, Torres softly echoed, "I told him we hadn't talked it."

Paris was silent for a minute as he thought about it. "I like kids," he finally said. "I just don't know how good of a father I'll be. I didn't get along with my own father most of the time growing up. I don't know how much of that was him and how much was me." He gave a small, quirky grin. "And he still says I'm irresponsible and immature."

"Reckless, not irresponsible," Torres corrected before sighing. "I don't exactly have the best role model for mothering, either. I still don't talk to my mother." She sounded sad about that. Paris reached over and rubbed her knee gently.

"You wouldn't be doing it alone, like your mother did," he said softly.

She gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand gently. "I know," she said, just as soft before clearing her throat. "But this conversation may be irrelevant."

He felt a chill go over him. Although they hadn't talked about children before, he had never thought that it wouldn't be an option. "What did Dr. Gault say?" he asked, his voice small.

"Apparently, the two lines of questioning weren't unrelated," she began. She went on to explain the biochemical reactions that occurred during Klingon mating, how the pheromones in a mate's blood were responsible for hormone production, which played a role in emotions and love and having children. She was careful to go into great detail, giving him the impression that she was not only repeating what Dr. Gault had told her, but that she also had done a great deal of research on the topic during the shuttle ride to Mars. She wanted to make sure he understood everything she was saying, and clarified whenever he had questions. "I asked if it still applied to me since I was only half-Klingon, and he said he would have to run some genetic tests to be sure, but he thought it would. He ran some scans and took some blood for further analysis, and then I went to see Counselor Troi for my overview. When I was done with her, I went back to see him. He said we should be able to have children, but it would require that type of bonding."

He felt a wave of relief wash over him that surprised him. He hadn't expected to feel that strongly about it. "That's good," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand again and smile reassuringly before it turned into a playful leer. "I'm more than willing to make the sacrifice of being bitten by you."

She rolled her eyes before her expression went somber again. "There's more. Dr. Gault said that due to the fact that I'm only half-Klingon, it's permanent. I'm missing a key enzyme to break down the hormones that form. He figured that my mother didn't have as much of that enzyme as most Klingons, that one copy of the gene was good and the other defective, and I got the bad one. If we do this, I really am stuck with you forever. If you leave or anything happens to you, I won't be able to 'mate' with anyone else. I won't even be able to fall in love again."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said emphatically. "I'm not your father, B'Elanna."

"I know," she said softly. "But you can't say that nothing's going to happen to you. You have a dangerous job; I know that. There's no saying when a faulty relay or poor connection could make a flight your last."

He realized what she was saying, that if something happened to him even the day after any sort of bonding, she would be alone the rest of her life. He shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "No, I can't ask you to do that. I can't do that to you."

She frowned at his sudden change of opinion. "Tom," she said, moving from her chair to his lap facing him, her legs straddling his. When she was in a more playful mood, this position was always a precursor to sex, but she also used it when she was saying something with more emphasis, when she needed his full attention. "When I said I wanted to marry you, I meant the whole thing: living together, learning to take care of each other, undoubtedly a lot of fighting, raising children together." She glanced down briefly before her brown eyes again locked on his blue ones, only centimeters away. Her voice low, she continued, "I lived most of my defined by what my father did. His leaving impacted how I felt about myself, my mother, and everyone around me. It wasn't too long ago that I decided I didn't want him to have any part in my life at all. I want a real marriage with you, I want whatever that strange biochemical bonding can bring to our relationship. If I walk away from that opportunity out of fear that something will happen and I'll be alone, it would be like letting him, his walking out, influence my entire life. I won't let him destroy my life with _you_ the way he destroyed my life with _him_."

Paris didn't say anything for a moment and just stared into her eyes, seeing the desperate plea for him to help her. Most of the time, she hid it well, but he could see her vulnerability, could almost see the frightened girl John Torres walked away from. He leaned the few centimeters to brush his lips against hers. "I just want you to be happy," he murmured.

"I am, Tom. I _am_ happy."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29—2372**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris stood abruptly from the pilot's chair and headed for the rear compartment of the shuttle, leaving Captain Kathryn Janeway sitting in surprise at the wave of emotions that had washed over her. She got the impression that while Paris never forgot about the events in that apartment and undoubtedly still thought about them often, it was the first time he had said them aloud, and the impact of her words to him, the knowledge of what his disappearance had done to her, had just been too much for him. His voice had grown thick before he stopped suddenly in his story, not even adding a teasing reference to sex like he usually did, and Janeway couldn't help but feel guilty at her role in making him relive that night and those words to each other.

She sighed as she leaned back in her chair, wondering if she would get to hear the end of the story. No, not the end—she knew the end, which involved a mission to the Badlands, a powerful dying entity, and a race of child-like humanoids Janeway chose over her crew. She even knew the broad strokes of the events of the middle, that Paris and Torres had gotten married sometime after she graduated from the Academy, and they started a life together on Mars, maybe even in that same apartment where they discussed children and the future of their relationship. She wished she could have had some look into their day-to-day life, to see how a fiery half-Klingon engineer and flippant test pilot could live together, plan for the future together.

Five minutes after Paris' sudden departure from the shuttle's cockpit, Janeway resigned herself to the knowledge that he wouldn't be making a reappearance until it was time to again traverse the asteroid field. Despite somehow feeling cheated out of the rest of the story, she accepted it for what it was, and began her full report on the away team's dealings with the Zyrians.

The hours went by, and just as Janeway suspected, Paris didn't return to the pilot's seat until the asteroid field was in visual range. "I studied the sensor data, and I plotted an alternate course through the field that should only take eight hours instead of ten," he said calmly as he slid into his chair and reactivated his console. His uniform was crisp, his hair neatly combed and his jaw shaved, but the redness in his eyes gave away the fact that not all was well with him.

The captain nodded. "It's your show, Lieutenant. Do what you need to do." He bobbed his head once in confirmation, returning the shuttle to manual piloting.

"Computer," he ordered into the air. "Play music Paris Beta-three." He ignored the surprise look on Janeway's face as the shuttle glided easily into the awaiting asteroids. After ten minutes of watching Paris silently navigate around the floating rocks, Janeway realized that she wasn't going to get anything out of him in terms of conversation. Making up some feeble excuse about getting some rest, she quickly ducked into the rear compartment.

Lying in the bunk and staring at the gray ceiling of the shuttle, she gave a small shudder. "Gods, what have I done?" she whispered harshly. Even though she knew that sleep would be hard to come by and tortured once it arrived, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes and waited for her fatigue to get the best of her.

---

A little more than seven and a half hours later, Captain Janeway was still in the rear compartment getting caught up on reports when she realized that she hadn't felt the slight pull of the shuttle navigating at impulse through the asteroid field for at least ten minutes. Ignoring the protests of cramped muscles, she pulled herself to a standing position and made her way to the front.

The 1960's rock-and-roll music was still playing in the background and Lt. Paris was leaning back in his seat, staring contemplatively at the blank space on the viewscreen in front of him. "Captain," he said calmly as he heard her approach, not turning in his chair. "Computer, cease music selection." Instantly, a heavy silence fell over the shuttle.

He finally turned to face his captain. "We're still about eleven hours at present speed from the rendezvous point," he announced.

She cocked an eyebrow as she took a seat in the copilot's chair. "We're ahead of schedule," she pointed out.

"Let's hope Chakotay leaves a light on for us," he joked, his smile falling flat. "If you don't mind, Captain, I can use a little rest."

She nodded. "You earned it, Lieutenant. I'll see you when you wake up." He gave a quick nod in reply as he again ducked into the rear compartment.

Six more hours had gone by before Lt. Paris returned to the pilot's seat, by which time Captain Janeway was struggling to stay awake at the helm, wishing she had slept instead of working on reports while Paris was navigating through the asteroid field. He didn't say anything as he took his station and silently activated his console. Thinking that she was going to be getting the silent treatment for the rest of the trip, Janeway opened her mouth to announce that she was going to get some sleep when Paris finally spoke. "We had originally planned on getting married the week after graduation, but B'Elanna's track schedule ruined those plans. She ended up making her goal of competing at the Federation Championships, which was mid-June, nearly a month after she graduated. She finished third, the highest any Starfleet Academy San Francisco cadet had ever finished, the highest any cadet had ever placed in the decathlon, and broke her own Starfleet record in the process. In the end, she did better than she had ever dreamed she would, and only a year and a half after the experts wondered if she'd be able to _walk_ again.

"The meet ended on Saturday, and we were married on Wednesday. It was a small ceremony in one of the banquet halls at Starfleet Headquarters, with only family and a few friends present. We each had one non-relative witness, which turned out to be Academy roommates for both of us—Ensign Reyana Srani for her, Lt. Seth Mitchell for me. The reception was a little larger, but still nothing extravagant, at the Admiral's Club." Janeway, whose father was an admiral, knew the exclusive locale well, having had her first promotion celebration, from ensign to lieutenant junior grade, inside its walls. "Overall, it wasn't anything fancy, just the small, private affair that we both wanted."


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30—2370**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris took a deep breath as he smoothed away non-existent wrinkles from the coat of his dress uniform and checked the mirror again to make sure his gold and black pips were in their proper position on his right shoulder.

"You're going to fidget yourself to death," Lt. Seth Mitchell said in an amused tone, causing Paris to jump in surprise. He spun to find his childhood friend and former roommate sprawled out on the couch against the room's back wall. Mitchell grinned at his friend's agitated state. "Gods, Tommy, I haven't seen you this keyed up since the Agora Run when we were fifteen."

"The Agora Run was easy compared to this," Paris replied, remembering that flight competition and how he believed at the time that his entire career was riding on being the first one across the finish line.

"I don't know why you're so nervous," Mitchell continued. "You've already done the hard part, convincing her to marry you. Now all you have to do is show up and hope she hasn't realized how big of mistake marrying you would be."

"Thanks, Seth," Paris said dryly. "Now I remember why I asked you to be my best man."

Mitchell grinned, showing off two rows of perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth. "I still can't believe you're getting married at all. Thomas Eugene Paris, the Crown Prince of Casual Relationships, will be gone forever. You're only twenty-five; you have your whole life ahead of you."

"I'm getting married, not dying," Paris replied with an eye roll.

"It seems like just yesterday I was healing your bruises and telling you how bad of an idea it was to get involved with your plebe," Mitchell continued in the same faux-mourning tone. A cleared throat on the other end of the room got both of their attentions. "It was from _bat'leth_ training," Mitchell explained quickly.

"Um-hmm," Admiral Owen Paris murmured. The younger Paris could only roll his eyes again in exasperation.

The door to the small room where the men were getting ready suddenly slid open, revealing a small girl in a dark purple dress. "Are you ready yet?" Navi Torres demanded, her hands on her hips in a miniature version of the challenging posture her sister often assumed.

"We still have ten minutes," Tom Paris replied with a grin. "And aren't you supposed to be with the girls?"

She waved the question aside and held out a PADD. "Reyana's hairdresser's doing B'Elanna's hair. He already did mine. B'Elanna asked me to give this to you." Her words were coming out in a rush, her tone excited. It was the first wedding she had been a part of, even as small as her part was. "Why are you so nervous, anyway?"

The men all chuckled as Paris took the PADD. "Did you read this?" he asked before activating it.

Navi shook her head obediently. "B'Elanna said it's private," she said solemnly. After a moment's pause, she added, "And it's locked."

Paris grinned down at her as he pressed his thumb to the screen to activate the PADD. Instantly, a single line appeared, _Is it too late to elope?_ He grinned again as he entered a quick response and locked the PADD again before handing it to his future sister-in-law. "It's still private," he told her. "And still locked. Now run back to the girls' room. I'll see you in a few minutes."

She made a face at him before turning and exiting the room, Paris' nervousness immediately returning. "Second thoughts, Paris?" Mitchell asked with a wide grin.

"And third, and fourth," he replied instantly before giving his friend a grin of his own. "And each one comes back with, this is right."

Mitchell shook his head slowly back and forth, still grinning as he clasped the taller pilot's shoulder. "Then let's go out there and get you married."

---

Paris hardly heard the words Admiral Pitlatch was saying during the invocation, his eyes and attention completely focused on the woman standing before him. Wearing a brand-new dress uniform in the gold of an engineer, her hair elaborately twisted at her neck with a few locks framing her face, Ensign B'Elanna Torres somehow looked calm and collected, her brown eyes smiling at him. _This is it_, he kept thinking, _this is the woman you're going to spend every day with, going to argue with, going to raise your children with_. And yet, he wasn't nervous about _that_. He was absolutely terrified that she was having those same thoughts with dread, realizing that she would be stuck with him forever.

Of course, nobody had any objections to the couple getting married, and Admiral Pitlatch turned the floor over to them for their vows. Although the invocation was similar to the standard Starfleet wedding ceremony, they deviated from there, choosing to write their own vows and include elements of both traditional Klingon and human wedding ceremonies. Paris cleared his throat slightly and took both of B'Elanna's hands in his. "I told you once, years ago, that I don't believe in promises," he began. "We can't control the future any more than we can control any other element in the universe, no matter how hard we try. So I'm not going to stand here and promise you that I will stand by you forever and will be by your side as long as you live, because I don't know if I can. But I am going to promise you that I will always try my hardest to do just that. Whenever I can't stand by you, whenever we are apart, I want you to know that it is not by choice, and that I will do whatever it takes to return to your side, in this world or whatever comes next. I will always love you, B'Elanna, and that is my promise to you."

B'Elanna nodded slightly, her eyes still on Paris', and squeezed his hands gently. "In a traditional Klingon wedding ceremony, the bride and groom swear to unite against their opponents, taking on each other's enemies as their own and fighting side by side in battle." The corner of her lip turned up in a slight smile and her tone turned dry. "I'm not anticipating requiring your services with a _bat'leth_ any time soon, but I wanted you to be aware of that fact." The guests, mostly members of the Paris family, chuckled softly at the thought of Tom brandishing any sort of Klingon weapon and fighting hordes of angry warriors alongside his slight half-Klingon bride. "In a way, you've already sworn that to me, and you have always been fighting my worst enemies, even when I was that enemy. You helped turn my anger into something constructive, something I can be proud of. You helped make me the person I am today, and I know you will help make me the person I've always wanted to become." Her eyes fell briefly, bringing them back up to his when he squeezed her hands reassuringly. "Just as you have already supported me and helped me, I will always do the same for you. As long as you don't give up on me, I won't give up on you."

When she was done, she turned to Lt. Mitchell, who handed her a small, sharp blade in an ornate sheath. Both Paris and Torres drew in a deep breath as she unsheathed the knife. Holding his right hand palm up, she pressed the tip into his palm at the base of his thumb, cutting a thin line to the center of his wrist. She raised his hand to her lips, kissing the line of blood. "_DaHjaj maH 'oH bagh Sum maj muSHa' je maj 'Iw_," she said. _Today we are bound by our love and our blood_. They had modified the more traditional Klingon wedding phrase to something they felt to be more appropriate for them.

Taking the small _chuHwl'_ from her, Paris repeated the procedure, his hand shaking slightly but the line straight. The blood that appeared there was different than his own, slightly more pink, and when he brought her hand to his lips, he noticed that the taste that remained after he kissed it wasn't the same as his own, either. "_DaHjaj maH 'oH bagh Sum maj muSHa' je maj 'Iw_." His pronunciation made her smile, and he knew he'd be hearing about it later, especially considering how much she worked with him on getting it right. After wrapping each other's wrists in the cloth bandages Mitchell provided, Srani handed a small gold band to Paris. With a few words he found from an old wedding ceremony, he slipped it on Torres' finger. She took a larger band from Srani and repeated the words and the motions.

After Admiral Pitlatch declared them married, Paris smiled slightly before bending down and kissing his wife. His _wife_. Suddenly, that didn't seem nearly so scary.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31—2372**

* * *

Captain Kathryn Janeway brought her coffee cup to her lips, making a face when she realized that it was empty. She sighed as she rose from her Ready Room chair toward the replicator. She opened her mouth to request another hot black coffee, but closed it before any sound came out as she realized that it was almost 2000, the tail end of dinner in the mess hall. She didn't usually eat with the rest of crew, but she heard the voice of Owen Paris in the back of her head: _the captain should be visible every once in awhile, to remind the crew that he actually exists._ After her long mission with Tom Paris, dining in the mess might be just the thing the crew needed. And herself, if she were forced to admit it.

As she suspected, there weren't many people left dining when she arrived in the mess hall, a few small groups scattered around the space. Neelix greeted her with his usual enthusiasm, rattling off dinner choices as if she actually had any idea what any of the dishes were. She selected the yerserba salad, hoping it was as innocuous as it sounded.

Sitting at one of the larger tables was a small group of her senior officers—Commander Chakotay, Lt. Tom Paris, Lt. Joe Carey, and Ensign Harry Kim. Idly, she reflected on the amount of testosterone of her senior staff; even the EMH was programmed to appear male. She briefly wondered if he could be reprogrammed to be female, just to even things out a bit, but pushed that thought to the back of her mind as she remembered her promise to Kes to treat the Doctor more like one of the crew.

Commander Chakotay caught her eye and grinned, pulling out the empty chair next to him and gesturing for her to join them. She nodded slightly, heading for the table, reflecting on how, just a few months before, she wouldn't have thought such a thing to be possible. Chakotay had been angry, to put it mildly, when she confronted him in the cargo bay after their unexpected trip to the Delta quadrant. He had been sarcastic, his words scathing as he asked how she was going to be dealing with 'her Maquis problem' now. She wondered if he had been surprised by her request that he assume the role of executive officer; it had taken him four days to get a response back to her. Maybe someday, she would ask what he had been thinking when he finally agreed. "Captain!" Kim startled as she took a seat, interrupting her internal musings. She hadn't thought it was possible to actually sit at attention, but Kim seemed to be trying to prove her wrong.

"Good evening, Harry," she said calmly, hoping that would be enough to put him at ease. His spine did relax slightly, but he still looked absolutely terrified.

"Evening, Captain," Paris said from the other end of the table. "We were just listening to Harry's stories about his wild days as a cadet." Kim flushed and opened his mouth to protest, but the chuckles of the other men around the table beat him to it. "Harry's 'wild days' probably consisted of staying up half an hour after curfew," Paris continued, grinning over at his friend. "He had to be the first and only cadet with a perfect grade in second-year engineering to request a tutor."

Kim's face blushing even darker confirmed Paris' story. "How did you know about that?" he asked.

Paris shrugged a shoulder and gave a mischievous grin. "I have my sources," he said mysteriously. He took a sip of his coffee and admitted, "I married your lab assistant."

"Oh, that's right," Kim said, remembering. "Your wife is Torres the Terror."

"She wasn't too bad," Carey commented. "Of course, I didn't meet her until after they were married. Maybe Tom calmed her down somewhat." They all laughed at that thought.

"Am I the only one here who hasn't met B'Elanna Torres?" Janeway asked in wonder.

"I haven't," Chakotay said, his dimples showing in his grin. "I resigned from Starfleet shortly after she graduated from the Academy. Sounds like quite the girl, though."

"I had a two-month lay-over at UP when she started at there," Carey explained. "She _did_ have a temper, but she was a damned fine engineer. She did some work on these engines, if I remember correctly."

"Quite a lot," Paris agreed with a nod. "Actually, Captain, you might have met her during a walk-through while the ship was still at UP. She wanted to come along, but she was put on a new project as soon as _Voyager_ left port."

Janeway nodded. "A three-week mission to the Badlands isn't something we would usually need a warp systems researcher for."

"No, not usually," Paris agreed. "But it sure would make this trip a lot more fun." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. She had to smile at how different he was acting than he had been in the shuttle; he was back to his usual light mood and fun-loving attitude. She wondered which, the jokester or the more-serious husband, he really was; she wondered if he was truly either.

The other officers laughed at Paris' implication, but Carey shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't want Sarah and the boys here. The DQ doesn't seem like the most family-friendly locale."

Paris rolled his eyes. "B'Elanna is more than capable of taking care of herself," he said dryly. Carey looked like he was going to say more, but reconsidered at the look on Paris' face.

Seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension that fell over the table, Chakotay stood from his seat. "I wish I could stay and chat, but I have shift rotations to work out. Unless, of course, you think I should just make it easy on myself and put everyone on rotating half-shifts." He grinned.

"Sure, why not?" Paris said with a dry smile. "That should make the Kazon's job easy. We'll all be so tired from not getting any sleep that we won't even notice them taking over our ship."

Chakotay grinned quickly in response and nodded his farewell. After giving some weak excuse about helping him out with the scheduling, Janeway rose and followed him out of the mess hall, leaving the three younger officers to their previous discussions.

---

An insomniac since her youth, still being awake at 0200 came as no surprise to Janeway. Usually, reading a few chapters of her latest novel or book of poetry, or a few minutes of staring contemplatively at the stars, would be enough to help calm her to the point that she could fall asleep, but neither seemed to help that night. Deciding that a stroll around the ship was in order, she exchanged her pink silk nightgown for a simple green dress she occasionally wore off-duty. She avoided any of the high-traffic areas of the ship, which at 0200 was the main duty stations, mostly engineering and the bridge. She took a quick turn through the aeroponics bay, but not even the scent of the flowers in Kes' small garden made her feel any more relaxed.

Her wanderings brought her back to the mess hall, darkened to night-time levels. She was about to call for the lights when she realized that she wasn't alone. Lt. Paris was leaning against one of the struts against the viewport, his back to the room as he stared out at the stars. "My quarters don't have a viewport," he finally said, still not turning to acknowledge the captain. "And, of course, the internal dampers keep any motion from being transferred inside. I come here sometimes to remind myself that we really are moving."

She didn't say anything in response as she moved to stand next to him. They stood there for a few long minutes, neither breaking the silence. "The story's not over, is it?"

"Captain?" he asked, finally turning to her.

"With your wife. I got the impression that Lt. Carey was going to say something at dinner."

He nodded slightly. "We took our honeymoon on a private island in the Bahamas, which is where I got this," he said with a small smirk, gesturing toward a crescent-shaped scar on his left jaw that she had never before noticed. "We moved into our new apartment at Mars Station and settled into our routines. Joe and the Carey family were at the Station for a couple of months while the _Potomac_ was undergoing at re-haul at UP. We had dinners at each other's places a few times. Their boys, Sean and Patrick, were five and two at the time. Cute kids. They look like their mother, but both have their father's hair. Red-blond curls everywhere." He smiled at the memory. "At the end of the summer—well, what would have been summer, had we been in San Francisco—the _Potomac_ went back out and Sarah and the boys went back home to Pennsylvania. We stayed in touch with them, though. B'Elanna liked their normalcy; she didn't have much of that growing up." He smiled slightly. "I'd deny this if you ever repeat it, but B'Elanna always thought of Joe as a bit of an intellectual lightweight. Of course, compared to her, there are quite a few people who would fit that description, myself included. She liked to tell me that she married me for my looks."

He went silent again, remembering. "She made lieutenant, junior grade after less that a year. I got my second gold pip about a week later. She enjoyed that week, the fact that I graduated three years before she did and we held the same rank. I hate to think about what's going to happen when she outranks me."

"What makes you so sure she'll outrank you?"

He shrugged. "It's inevitable. Even if it weren't for the fact that I'm on the other side of the galaxy with little openings for advancement, engineers have a faster rate of promotions than test pilots. Anyway, we settled into a fairly normal life, as normal of a life as a rising-star half-Klingon engineer and a hotshot test pilot could have. We had our routines. There were things I could always count on—she was always slow to get out of bed in the morning, drank too much raktajino, skipped too many meals, would go back to work after dinner as often as not. Just as much, she had to learn to tolerate my rock-and-roll music, left-over pizza crusts, off-the-wall references to twentieth-century pop culture, and often reckless piloting. It was all predictable, until one day it wasn't."


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32—2371**

* * *

Lt. Tom Paris groaned as the red light of Mars streamed in through the open window. The problem with Martian summers—other than the fact that they last six months and inevitably resulted in him being as red as the sand by the end—was that the sun came up far too early for his tastes. Usually, though, the curtains blocked the worst of it, but they must have forgotten to draw them closed the night before, because there was nothing between the Martian air and the apartment. Not even transparent aluminum, now that he was awake enough to comprehend that. It was rare that the curtains would be open; it was unheard of that the window itself would be.

He turned to his wife to ask about it, but found her side of the bed empty, which made him sit up in wonder. In fourteen months of marriage, they had never opened the windows, and she had most certainly never gotten out of bed before him.

"B'Elanna?" he called out questioningly as he pulled his robe over his boxer shorts. He found his wife sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of raktajino in her left hand and a PADD in her right. "Morning," he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. She only murmured in response. "You're up early."

She shrugged a shoulder. "There's a lot of work to do. The injector coil assembly is out of alignment, which causes the dilithium articulation frame to run to high. If we don't correct it, the core will breach at warp two."

"Well, that would make for a slow trip to the Badlands," he quipped. "You opened the window."

"Um-hmm," she murmured, still reading from her PADD.

Figuring he wasn't going to get an explanation about either the early wakening or the window, Paris shrugged and turned to the replicator. "Since we're both up, how about a real breakfast? I'll cook."

She snorted at that; neither of them cooked. "I'm not hungry," she said, still sounding distracted by the equations on the PADD. She held her mug out. "I can use a refill, though."

"Of course," he said, taking the cup from her. "I could just give you a hypo of caffeine. It would be more effective."

"Wouldn't taste as good, though," she replied absently. He knew better than to press the issue.

"You working this weekend?" he asked, placing the newly refilled mug back in her hand.

"I don't know yet. Why?" she asked, finally giving him her full attention.

He shrugged as he took the seat across from her, an omelet on the plate in front of him. "We haven't gotten away in awhile."

She shook her head. "_Voyager_ launches in two weeks, and the warp core is at least three weeks away from ready. I don't think getting away is an option right now." She sighed heavily and took a long drink from her mug. When she turned back to him, he could see her fatigue in the dark circles under her eyes and gauntness of her cheeks. He knew she hadn't been sleeping much, and began to wonder just how many meals she had been skipping lately. "We both have some leave built up. When you get back from the Badlands, we'll take a week or two and go somewhere, lie around on some beach where no one can reach us and we won't have to worry about warp cores or test flights."

He grinned and chuckled. "You wouldn't last two days without thinking about the warp core, much less two weeks."

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge. She slowly rose from her chair and made her way to him, taking a seat on his lap. "Maybe if I had something else to occupy my mind, I wouldn't need to think about the warp core," she said, her voice low and sultry. He laughed as she leaned forward and kissed him slowly.

"Is that a hint, Torres?" he asked.

"Maybe," she replied playfully. "Whoa," she said suddenly, one hand grabbing his shoulder and the other going to her temple.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Sudden dizzy spell. Maybe I should grab something to eat after all."

"Here," he said, picking her up and carrying her the meter over to the couch. "Sit here, I'll go grab my med kit."

"Tom, I'm fine," she protested. Ignoring her, he headed over to his closet, where his med kit was stored. "Are you sure you even remember how to use that thing?"

"I'm still up to date on my field medic certification," he replied, returning with kit in hand. "Besides, it's a medical tricorder. It's not that difficult to operate." He pulled the instrument from the kit and activated it, scanning his wife. Reading the results, his eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

"What is it?" Torres asked, now getting worried. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not wrong," he managed, his voice returning. He turned the tricorder to show her the display, which he realized after the fact meant little to her, not having any experience with medical scans. "You're pregnant. We're going to have a baby."

"Pregnant," she repeated softly, her hand involuntarily going to her flat stomach. "But Dr. Gault wasn't even sure it would be possible…"

"Apparently it is," he replied with a grin. They hadn't really been trying to get pregnant, but they hadn't been trying to avoid it, either. They both let their contraceptives lapse after they got married and had been playing it by ear, not knowing if the 'genetic incompabilities' would allow them to ever be parents or not.

A matching grin slowly spread over her face. "We're going to have a baby," she repeated.

He leaned forward and kissed her. "We should probably get you to the doctor."

She made a face and pushed him away. "Way to ruin a mood, Paris," she said, angrily standing from the couch.

Paris sighed, not bothering to get up from his crouched position in front of the couch. She was already prone to quick mood swings, and now he was getting the first glimpse of what pregnancy hormones were going to do. "B'Elanna…" he began.

"I'm not sick," she interrupted.

"No, you're not," he agreed. "You're pregnant, and you almost passed out this morning. I don't think it's a bad idea to make sure everything is okay—"

"You're not going to do one of those over-protective father-to-be things, are you?" she interrupted.

"Maybe," he admitted. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she conceded. "We'll go to the doctor. But if you even think that I'm going to stop working to stay at home and take care of the kids…"

He snorted. "Just how stupid do you think I am?" he scoffed. He gave her a quirky grin. "Besides, that's what _I_ was planning on doing."

She laughed and walked back over to him, pulling him to his feet. "You're an idiot," she said, lacing her arms under his.

"I know," he replied with a grin, giving her a kiss. "Come on, let's go get ready."

"I can use a shower," she purred. His grin widened.

---

"Congratulations, Lieutenants," Dr. Yamisuko said, deactivating his console. "You're going to have a baby."

Paris squeezed his wife's hand. "So everything's okay?"

"As far as I can tell, everything is just fine," the physician replied. "However, I think with the unique hybrid issues, you should be following with a hybrid obstetrician. The closest is at Starfleet Medical, Dr.—"

"Dr. Gault," Torres interrupted. She nodded. "I've been seeing him since I was a cadet."

Dr. Yamisuko nodded as well. "I'll make an appointment for you to see him later today. He'll have a better idea than I do as far as dietary and physical requirements, the progression of the pregnancy, and what to expect in the coming months."

"Not today," Torres said, shaking her head. "I should go to work this afternoon. Make the appointment for tomorrow, we can get the shuttle to San Francisco tonight." Paris opened his mouth to protest, but she was faster. "I'm not sick," she said emphatically. "I can go to work today, take tomorrow off. We'll go into San Fran tonight, surprise your parents with the news." She turned back to the short Japanese physician. "When is the baby due?" she asked softly.

Yamisuko looked apologetic. "That's probably something else you should ask Dr. Gault," he admitted. "You're at eight weeks now. Human gestational period is forty weeks, Klingon is thirty, and first babies tend to come on their own schedule, so you could probably expect anywhere between another twenty and thirty-four weeks, probably closer to the longer end of that spectrum."

"That's a two-and-a-half month range, Doc," Paris said with a frown.

Yamisuko shrugged. "Sorry. Would you like to know the sex of the baby?"

Paris and Torres looked at each other in surprise; neither of them had thought about that. "Yes," Torres said, at the same time Paris said, "No."

"I want to be surprised," Paris explained.

Torres crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him baldly. "Don't you think we've had enough surprises already?"

Dr. Yamisuko looked at him with an expression that said he had seen and heard it all before. "Why don't you talk about it among yourselves? You can have Dr. Gault tell you tomorrow or anytime you decide. In the meantime, Lieutenant," he said, turning to Torres and handing over a PADD. "Here's the basic reading I give to all first-time mothers. Like I said already, Dr. Gault will be able to give you more specifics about dietary and sleep requirements, but as a general rule, no more all-nighters working and no more skipped meals. If you're craving something, eat it. You can't be afraid to gain a few kilos. You're not going to need to be at your pole-vaulting weight anymore."

"I think the 'no more all-nighters' is going to be harder for her to follow than telling her to eat more," Paris said dryly.

She rolled her eyes at her husband before turning back to the physician. "I don't skip meals to keep my weight down," she explained. "I just forget to eat."

"Well, then, Lt. Paris, your job is to remind her," Yamisuko said with a smile. Torres rolled her eyes again.

"I don't think he needed to be told that," Torres remarked. She smiled over at him to let him know she was joking. "Thanks, Doctor. Anything else?"

He shook his head. "I don't know how often Dr. Gault is going to want to see you, but I'd like you to come by once a month for a first few months, then we'll adjust it from there. In the meantime, go see Dr. Gault tomorrow. I'll be communicating with him about how things are progressing. I understand both of you will be finishing big projects in the next few weeks, so good luck with those, and I'll see you in a month."


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33—2371**

* * *

That afternoon on the shuttle they had their first fight since finding out they were pregnant; occurring eight hours after they got the news, it actually came as a surprise to Paris that they lasted that long.

Although he was certified to fly the route from San Francisco to Utopia Planitia, they elected to take the commuter shuttle for its convenience—in efforts to keep the traffic low on that route, Starfleet had put so many restrictions on it that it took longer to fly a private shuttle during business hours than to take the commuter flight. Paris was sitting next to the viewport, talking excitedly about cribs and mobiles and moving into the larger family apartments, hearing only murmured agreements from B'Elanna in response.

When he didn't get an answer to a question, he turned to see her intently poring over a PADD. Thinking it was the PADD Dr. Yamisuko gave them, he leaned over to get a look and blinked in surprise. "You're working on the warp core?" he asked in disbelief.

She looked confused at the question. "It's still not running properly," she said as an explanation.

"But you're working on it _now?_"

She frowned. "I still have a job to do, Tom, and I should think that even you would agree that checking diagnostic reports on a PADD is hardly taxing work."

"I just thought you'd have other things on your mind."

"Tom, women have been having babies for millions of years. Most of them didn't put their entire lives on hold from the moment they learned they were pregnant until their children moved out of the house."

"This isn't _other women_, B'Elanna. This is _you_. You, and me, and _our_ baby. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Her head snapped to face him. "How can you say that?" she hissed angrily, struggling to keep her voice low.

"Well, geez, B'Elanna, you haven't exactly been bubbling over with enthusiasm since we found out. You're more concerned with your warp core than our baby." He knew that wasn't fair, but found the words coming out before he realized what he was saying.

"Maybe there's just not enough _enthusiasm_ left to go around," she shot back. "I haven't even had time to _think_, and you're already planning when you're going to be taking it out for its first shuttle flight!"

Even though they had been speaking in low voices, they had caught the attention of several other passengers on the shuttle. Paris glanced around, smiling thinly at others before turning his gaze back to his wife. "I guess I have been a little bit…over-the-top, haven't I?"

"You?" Torres asked sarcastically. "That would have to be a first." She sighed. "I guess it just hasn't really sunken it yet."

He put his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to him, and kissing her lightly on the temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered. After a pause, he added, "You'd tell me if anything was wrong, right?"

"Of course," she said. He couldn't help but wonder if he only imagined the hesitation in her voice.

---

By the end of a very high-spirited celebratory dinner at the Paris', Lt. Paris was feeling like things were returning to normal. Maybe a different 'normal' than they were used to be, but normal nonetheless. As soon as they told Owen and Alicia their news, Alicia insisted they comm both Sydney and Nicki. Sydney, herself eight months pregnant with their third kid, was several light years away and couldn't come, but offered her congratulations. Nicki, on the other hand, quickly gathered up her family and beamed over to join the party. It wasn't hard to see where Tom had gotten his excited nature—despite having almost six grandchildren already, Alicia couldn't stop bubbling about how happy she was. Not even Owen was unaffected, and Tom could see that B'Elanna was starting to get into it, grinning and laughing with everyone else as ten-year-old Ainsley Sanders snapped endless pictures with the holoimager she had gotten for her last birthday.

Later that night, they silently laid in the bed of Tom's childhood bedroom after making love, both still awake but neither saying anything, B'Elanna's head on her husband's shoulder, his fingers idly working their way through her dark curls. "I'm scared," she finally said. Instead of saying anything, Paris drew her closer, knowing she'd explain soon enough. "I don't know what kind of mother I'll be." She tilted her head to look at his face. "I didn't exactly have the best relationship with _my_ mother. We haven't talked since I left for the Academy more than five years ago."

"You're not your mother," Paris said. "And I'm not your father. We're doing this together."

"I know," she said softly. "Are you sure you can handle living with two Klingons?"

He kissed her temple. "Or three, or four, or five…"

She chuckled. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Paris. How about if we focus on this one and go from there?"

"Good idea." They lapsed back into silence. "I don't have to go. On _Voyager_. One of the other pilots can handle it, or they can get Lt. Stadi to return early from her current mission."

She sat up to get a better look at him, saw that he was serious. "You've been looking forward to this since you heard about the mission."

"It's dangerous. Even if it weren't for the Maquis and Cardassians, either of which I'm sure would have no problems firing on us, the Badlands aren't exactly among the most benign flying courses."

"Which is why they need UP's best damned test pilot," Torres said teasingly. She returned to her reclining position. "It's three weeks, Tom. Nothing is going to happen in three weeks. I still won't even _look_ pregnant when you get back."

"I'm being over-protective again, aren't I?" he asked apologetically. She nodded.

"We still need to talk about whether or not we want to know if it's a boy or a girl," she said.

"I still want to be surprised," he replied stubbornly.

She sighed. "I don't want to be referring to it as 'it' for the next five to seven months. And knowing will make it easier to decorate the room and pick out names."

"So you want to know tomorrow." He said it with resignation.

"How about a compromise? We'll wait until you get back from your little rescue mission with _Voyager_. That way, you get five more weeks of suspense." She shrugged a shoulder. "And it will still be a surprise; it will just be a little bit earlier of a surprise than you were thinking."

"As always, you bring up an excellent point," he said with a grin. "So first thing we'll do after I get off the ship is go to the infirmary and find out if we're having a boy or a girl."

"Second thing," Torres said, her eyes taking on a feral glint as she moved her body more over his.

"Hmm?" he asked, already distracted.

"It'll be the second thing we do after you get back. I already have something planned for the _first_ thing we do."

"Another excellent point, Torres," he murmured as her head descended toward his.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34—2371**

* * *

_*Attention all hands: The _USS Voyager_ will be departing from the station in one hour. All station personnel, please make your way to the docking ports. Crewmembers, please report to stations. _Voyager_ will be departing from Utopia Planitia in one hour.* _

Lt. Tom Paris glanced up from the navigational control relays on deck twelve at the announcement, quickly locking down his station and making his way to the nearest docking port. He had chosen to be the one to do the final inspection on the relays for this exact reason.

The closest docking port to main engineering was also on deck twelve, and it was only a few minutes later that Paris caught sight of a petite half-Klingon station engineer making her way toward the exit. Without saying anything, he pulled her aside before she left the ship into a semi-secluded corner off the main route, and held her against the bulkhead with a lip-bruising kiss.

"Aren't you supposed to be making your way to your station?" she asked playfully as they separated.

"I couldn't leave without saying goodbye," he replied with a wide grin. They had said their proper good-byes the evening before, and again that morning before reporting for duty.

She smiled back, tracing his jaw with her finger. "Don't you dare die on me, Flyboy. I'm only getting married once."

His grin widened at the familiar parting words. "Don't worry. I'm not planning on it."

"That's good," she said absently, her eyes still fixed on his jaw, on the faint crescent-shaped scar she left more than a year before. "Because if you did, I'd have to go down to the gates of Gre'thor myself to kill you again." Her eyes traveled up to meet his, and he couldn't miss seeing the worry in those deep brown depths.

"I love you, B'Elanna," he murmured. He bent down to kiss her gently. "I'll see you in a few weeks." He bent down further, kissing her flat stomach. "And I'll see you in a few months."

Torres laughed, pulling him upright. "Idiot," she murmured. "I love you, too, Tom. Hurry back." She gave him a quick kiss and smile, then exited the ship. Just on the other side of the airlock, she turned back and shot him a reassuring smile. He waved in return before turning and heading for the turbolift for his first shift ever as a bridge officer.

**The End**

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_A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the story! I did have ideas for a continuation of this story from Torres' point of view, but it never got written. Maybe someday. In the meantime, I do have some other stories saved up (actual canon stories, believe it or not, not just my usual AU's), so keep your eyes open for those._


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